Callafornia

A Purist's Review

2011-12-20T14:54:00.000-08:00

I liked THE ADVENTURES OF TINTIN, so shoot me. According to every review I've read from The New Yorker to Salon to Variety -- and not to mention the Comment sections from some websites, oy! -- everyone seems to be offended by Spielberg's adaptation of Herge's comic hero. They're offended that Spielberg added Indiana Jones-like scenarios to the three cobbled together comic books that qualify as the source material. They're offended that TinTin has no depth of character. Some people are offended by the CGI and think it's a slight to the artist who pioneered the ligne claire style of cartooning. Some reviewers have called it "exhausting." To which I say, "Really?" I thought it was kinda fun.

While I will confess to an Archie comic infatuation at the age of ten (Team Betty!), I was never a true comic reader. When graphic novels became en vogue about ten years ago, I was working at the Barnes & Noble on 17th Street in New York City. Bouncy college kids from the School of Visual Arts would bop in, secure in their super cool, arty hipness, and ask where the Graphic Novels were located. At that time, they occupied three shelves next to Manga. (During a recent visit, they had four bookcases. Manga had expanded, too. I don't know what happened to Poetry and Essays which used to reside there. Poetry, I barely knew thee...literally.) I was perplexed enough to trek up to the fourth floor myself and check out Daredevil and Watchmen. I didn't get it and never bothered again. So, it seems I missed the gem TinTin in its original form. To which I say, C'est la vie. Herge would know what I mean. Now, don't get me wrong, I like to read books before they become movies. But some books can be skipped without feeling too badly about missing the literary purity of the story. I mean, it's hard to watch a Grisham adaptation and leave the theater saying, "Wow, in the book, that chase scene wasn't just a chase scene. It was the character's existential crisis where he wasn't just running away from that crooked judge, but running away from the ghost of his father's unrealistic expectations!" because, you know, that's not really the point of a Grisham novel. But I do think that people who loved the TinTin comics were bound to be disappointed, just like anyone who has ever loved any book has been disappointed by a theatrical adaptation. Choices have to be made, and perhaps they wouldn't be your choices. Which brings me to CGI.

People do not like CGI. People who plonked down $18 for IMAX in 3D to watch blue giants on another planet, got all weirded out about TINTIN. James Cameron is a genius, but people throw around the name Bob Zemeckis like it's a curse word. One commentator I read was in high dudgeon over the fact that TINTIN is going to be considered in the Best Animation category when it's sooo not animation in the classical sense! How "classical" do you want to go, because if I remember correctly, people were all hot and bothered over computer generated animation around the time of TOY STORY's launch. Should we insist that SHREK and UP! return their Oscars? The only reason there is an animation category is because of computer generated cartooning. CGI is just the next genesis of that evolution. Before I move on, I'll give you a moment to pick your wedgie, because obviously your panties are in a bunch.

One of the reasons I think Hollywood likes comics and graphic novels is not only the "platform" - IE. established material with its own following -- but, that it's basically just storyboarding. They get storyboarding! Hollywood creative execs are usually visual people who don't want the writer to mickey around with the "story" too much. Yet those pesky writers keep trying to put non-essential "stuff" into the script. You know, like character development, motivation, and dialogue that isn't just set-up>punchline. But we have far surpassed the days of "moving pictures" and there has to be more then just a lot of music and a title card every few minutes. Audiences are much more sophisticated and when we do cheat them out of a story, they get grumbly. And I think this is what reviewers were responding too in TINTIN. There was no character exploration that was being exercised through external conflict. I guess the only criticism, when viewed in this context, could be that Spielberg was enamored by the visuals with which CGI was allowing him to experiment. But, honestly, that is what I enjoyed most about TINTIN. Spielberg was so obviously enjoying himself! It felt like a kid in the candy store. He directed the film like he would have directed, yes, Indiana Jones, but with flourish! His little call backs to his own movies -- JAWS, JURASSIC PARK, et. al -- is something Pixar does in every film. Moving the camera around a space in a way that it would be difficult or dangerous on a set provided thrilling optics. He was able to pour in a little slapstick without it feeling out of place. It was like an amusement ride, and I enjoyed it immensely. However, maybe it was these visual gymnastics that reviewers didn't like, or why some people felt tired by the end of it. There was so much to see! Which is also why, maybe, the character development of TinTin wasn't up to par. But, *shrug* I enjoyed it.

OK, so maybe it wasn't a pure Herge movie for the Herge enthusiast. But it was definitely an enthusiastic Spielberg adventure film, and pure fun for people who like quintessential Spielberg films. And I do.

The One that Got Away

2011-11-14T07:39:00.000-08:00

A few years ago, I was traversing the floor of Book Expo America when I came upon the Scholastic booth where a very large line had formed. Since the final Harry Potter had just been released the year before, I curiously asked a woman in line for what she was queuing. "The next HUNGER GAMES," she replied, happily. "Oh," I said with a little mental shrug and wound my way around the booth and past the seventy-plus middle-aged librarians excitingly chattering in line. About ten minutes later, I met up with my friend, Edie, who is an editor at Penguin. "Do you know what HUNGER GAMES is?" She froze like a deer in headlights right in the middle of the BEA floor (which one should never do...) "Scholastic has THE HUNGER GAMES?!" At which point, we sprinted back to the Scholastic booth. After Edie updated me on the emerging phenom, I quickly called my boss and asked her to check StudioSystem to see if THE HUNGER GAMES by Suzanne Collins had been optioned because if it hadn't, I was willing to sell a kidney, a couple of eggs, and the lobe of my liver to raise the money for the film rights on the planned three books. Even though I hadn't read the first book and was holding the pre-published second book in my hand, it had obviously struck a nerve within the literary community. Unfortunately, Lionsgate had scooped it up a scant two months earlier. I read the first and second book back-to-back and then waited like a coke addict for pay day until the third book was published. Everyone I've given the trilogy to since has been desperately waiting for the movie along with me. This morning, the trailer was revealed. We may never get Wonder Woman, but we can at least have Katniss Everdeen.

Cream of the Crop

2011-09-24T08:49:00.001-07:00

The new television season has started! Can I get a woot-woot?! (Did I just age myself? I did, didn't I? Well, get jiggy with it, and let's move forward.) I'm sure you have a life, dear Reader, and have not done what I have done and either watched or DVR'd almost every premiere aired and have already dedicated hours of precious life to faux-Chuck Lorre comedies and Friends knock-offs. And even though some -- Pan Am, Terra Nova, Grimm, and Once Upon a Time -- have not aired yet, I do have thoughts on the current crop already. I'm sure this is how vintners feel at the end of grape growing season. While the Chardonnays aren't quite ready yet, and the Pinots need to age a bit, some of these Merlots are excellent!

NEW GIRL: This is already getting bashed by a couple of my friends and my hairdresser, but I totally like it and I've moved it up on my DVR's priority list. I particularly liked that they didn't set up the romantic entanglement (though my money is on Nick). I feel like they're going to let it breathe and allow the actors to nurture their natural chemistry. I'm very upset, however, that Damon Wayans, Jr. had to go back to Happy Endings (who saw that getting a second season pick-up?!). While Happy Endings might become the best Friends knock-off we've seen yet, New Girl feels like it's going to become the next genesis of Friends and therefore will probably have legs. I like DW, Jr. in general and prefer Coach over Brad (yes, I did watch Happy Endings. Casey Wilson deserves a fantastic career, and I will devote myself to that end...at least for another mid-season replacement). I read that they replaced DW, Jr. in the second episode with a new new "roommate," but I think it screws with their gimmick a little. Not that the average viewer is going to care or probably pick up on it (See: Cougartown). But I did, it will bother me in the way that only a snobby development person can be bothered by such lame things. The complaints that I've heard have been over Zooey Daschanel's character. She's dumb, supposedly and/or annoying. Why did they have to make her so weird? I guess that "quirky" can come off "dumb," but I saw the character as more awkward, insecure, and nerdy. Which I like, because I'm really tired of hip, gorgeous, sexual secure women who trip while walking into a bar then open their eyes wide in wonder when a hip, gorgeous, sexual secure man likes them because, hey, she tripped! She's not perfect! How could he possible like her?! Blergh. I'll take quirky and weird over neurotic any day...which brings me to

UP ALL NIGHT: I've watched both episodes and if I watch any more, it's only because my roommate liked it, and I might sit through it while on my iPad answering emails. Maya Rudolph, like Casey Wilson, deserves a stellar career. I don't know if she deserves this show. I did read that they re-shot the pilot to add more Maya to which I think we should all thank the network gods. In fact, they should scrap this and spin-off Ava into her own show. While Christina -- completely gorgeous -- and Will -- totally handsome -- are pretty funny people with terrific timing, I think they both belong in ensemble casts. I just don't get this. Possible because I'm not a parent working in L.A.'s entertainment industry. Their neurosis chafed at me. These are privileged, entitled people wondering if their hipster neighbors who just bought a million dollar house in, what, Los Feliz, will like them. This is what they worry about? Check, please! Maybe because I work with these kinds of people and can't stand them, I'm the wrong audience for this show. Additionally, the scripts have been uneven, and Glee has taught me never to brush off an uneven episode.

FREE AGENTS: Another show that people are already bashing. I've watched two episodes, and I'm on the fence. I love Hank Azaria, and Kathryn Hahn needs something big to happen. She's very smart and funny. I don't know why she's not catching on. But this isn't it for her. And it won't be it for Hank, either, but Hank has a solid career. How he's doing this and ten voices on the Simpsons, I don't know. The big problem with this show is that the pilot felt like Episode Ten. There is something sweet between Helen and Alex, however, they've already answered the Will They or Won't They question (they did) and we're now in a FWB situation with 40-year olds. Is this exciting? I don't think so. It's all a little familiar. But I love Hank and Kathryn, so, *shrug*

RINGER: *Disclosure* I am not a Buffy fan, ergo Sarah Michelle Gellar's return to series was not an impetus to watch this show...Ioan Gruffudd was! Hello, Captain Hornblower! *kiss, kiss* I think they threw everything and the newly renovated apartment's kitchen sink into this pilot's script. It was a lot to take in, and the special effects were pretty atrocious. With that said, if I catch it, I catch it if only to gaze in adoration at Mr. Fantastic. But the evil twin storyline is laughable, not to mention that I can probably chart out the next two seasons' plotline for you right now. But if you liked it, I'll let you be semi-surprised by this soap opera.

THE SECRET CIRCLE: Don't hate me. I love it. LOL! Won't do Vampire Diaries, but this totally looked like the The Craft, and I was all for it. I also like Britt Robertson. She was terrific in Dan in Real Life, though a little stiff in Avalon. She's a little stiff here, too, but I think she has potential.

PERSON OF INTEREST: *Sigh* I don't know what to say about this. First, I guess the tenth anniversary of 9/11 means we can use it now as character/plot motivation in series TV to give -- what, gravitas? -- I don't know. Person of Interest used it, as did last night's CSI:NY. In the case of Person of Interest, it is used to set up the world: A 1984-like police state where we are all being monitored all the time and there is a Big Brother computer collecting this data and hypothesizing who is going to either commit or be a victim of a violent crime. The conspiracy theorists are going to luuuv this show. With that said, I like this show. Jim Caviezel's cheekbones alone will keep me tuning in for awhile, and maybe it'll either completely hook me like Lost -- hello, Michael Emerson -- or be my go-to show like House. Solid, well-acted, and good TV. In fact, smart money would be on a House-like scenario. Close-ended episodes perfect for dipping into and syndication. But we'll see.

2 BROKE GIRLS: This show wins for the most Chuck Lorre-like show that is not produced by Chuck Lorre. I adore -- AH-DORE -- Kat Dennings. But I'm not sure about this show. It is definitely on the right network, unlike Whitney, and it'll probably work out, unlike Whitney. Luckily, Whitney Cummings is the co-creator and probably getting a nice paycheck which she is going to need when NBC axes Whitney. Why am I talking about Whitney in the 2 Broke Girls paragraph? Because there's really nothing to talk about in regards to either. In 2 Brooke Girls, two girls with no money are going to start a cupcake shop (so NYC 2005, btw) by pooling their waitress'ing tips. The gimmick is that at the end of episode we see how much money they have cumed towards their $25,000 goal. Hopefully, the economy turns around and they are able to get a small business loan in three years, but, hey!, it's TV! In the middle of that, hi-jinks ensue because they are, you know, two broke girls. CBS comedy, what can you say...

A GIFTED MAN: Probably my second favorite of the season. I want to hate Susannah Grant, but I can't. I will reserve, however, that I don't know how long they will be able to sustain the gimmick. Considering the love story is between a very hot and gifted surgeon and a dead ex-wife, well, other than Patrick Wilson growing enough to fall in love with someone else and letting Jennifer Ehle go, it's kind of a Gothic romance like Heathcliff and Katherine, isn't it? He can't have the girl. Literally. But, Jennifer Ehle is luminous. She, like Kathryn Hahn, deserves so much more than she's been given. She is incredible actress. I'm hoping that between Contagion and this, she will finally gain the eye of Hollywood's power producers. HIRE HER! Good god! I also don't know how this is going to do once Jonathan Demme is no longer directing. The pilot was just gorgeously shot, and I'm afraid of what's going to happen to the enormous set pieces once the production value is wrangled to the one million mark. Bad, bad things can happen. But I'm totally going with this one if just for the cast. Speaking of a kick ass cast

PRIME SUSPECT: I have not watched an episode yet, but I just saw a publicity shot and Brian F. O'Bryne and Aiden Quinn are in this? Hm, I might have to Hulu this one just to check out. I was on protest because, well, American versions of British hits aren't exactly good. Just look at Being Human and just about everything else. Even The Office, while a hit, never really worked for me. And while I'm on protest

THE PLAYBOY CLUB: No. NOOO. You can not make me. First, cloaking misogyny and sexual exploitation in the guise of a period drama is ridiculous. Calling it sexual equality makes me want to vomit. Second, you can't call it female empowerment then start the show off with a girl almost getting raped, killing her attacker, and then needing a big strong man to come and save her. Third, you're no Mad Men. Unless you can pull off an episode like "The Suitcase," you're just a wannabe and totally don't get what Mad Men is about anyway. All style, no substance. Will not. NO. Ditto for Charlie's Angels. Minka, darling, be the Farrah and GET OUT!

As I've said, there is more to come in the next few weeks, and I'm very interested in which of these get the ax first. While there is a lot of serviceable material out, they will have to compete with Modern Family which started off strong, Community and its cult following, Simon Cowell shows old and new, and all the Chuck Lorre and Shondra Rhimes programs that have their own legions of fans, not to mention cable. When is Mad Men starting again? My DVR is jammed and I've had to make some tough decisions. However, if some of these can just limp through this season, I think we're going to need them for next year when Desperate Housewives, House, and possibly Grey's Anatomy, Chuck, and The Office finally go away because all in all, there's nothing atrocious that can't be ironed out with some solid acting and a good story arc.

Here's to the new season, darlings! Cheers!

Hope for the Best

2011-09-10T09:49:00.000-07:00

A month ago, we got a green light for our second film of the season, and we're in that glorious time called pre-production. Pre-production is when a person gets to believe that bad writing will finally get that one last polish to smooth out all those goofy lines, that this director will finally be the director who doesn't become a raging despot on set and go over budget by millions for no apparent cinematic reason, and that all the actors cast will be inspired and embody the character they were employed to portray without dialing it in. After five years, this is still my hope. What can I say? I'm an optimist!

Well, we're polishing the script, and there are still goofy lines, and - in my opinion - the director has already made some questionable calls in regards to where to put some money which means it's only down hill from here. However! There is still hope in casting! There is always hope in casting...until there isn't. It started off very good as I made a suggestion about the lead and the EP thought it was brilliant and the actor liked the script and moved things around in his schedule and now he's our lead! Yay! I like producing! And then the actual casting sessions started. The new movie is a large ensemble piece that requires younger actors with "character." In other words, we're not looking for High School Musical kids, we're looking for kids that are a little off-beat, are actually teenagers, and aren't necessarily beautiful. And, yes, I know we are beautiful in every single way, but directors seem to love CW's standard of beauty over Christina Aguilera's standard of beauty, if you know what I mean. I haven't met a director yet that has taken that weird, gumpy looking actor who actually understands the motivations of the character and delivers goofy lines organically over, you know, that model turned actor. How else do you explain Mark Wahlberg who started out as the brother of a "New Kid on the Block," got a rap career which was eclipsed by a modeling career, which got him into movies, which got him into producing a TV show that mocks people trying to make a film career through merit by revealing that it really is all in who you know? *Sigh* (I'm so glad that show is over. I love Mark Wahlberg - call me! - but, com'on. Thank god for In Treatment and Boardwalk Empire or else my love would be in cheap tatters never to be risen from the ashes of our mutual devotion to working-class Irish neighborhoods and Catholicism.) I'm digressing. Where was I? Oh, casting! Right.

Anyway, couple weeks ago, we're on nowcasting.com looking at the auditions. And the thing about development is that you spend weeks and months and sometimes years just talking about the plot and the story arc and the characters, and the character development, motivation and journey. I mean, hours are spent on this! And you work very, very closely with the writer(s) to bang the script into something that feels emotional, subtle and satisfying. So when I'm watching auditions, I look for an actor who is the whole package: Not only the actor who's got "It," but the actor who gets it (i.e. the actor who is appealing enough for an audience to stick with no matter how annoying while also being natural within the character's skin). Inevitably, people walk into casting sessions that you recognize from features and favorite television shows, and either you're ecstatic -- we can get her? I LOVE HER! -- or you mentally cringe. But you go through the process with an open mind. Sometimes your favorite person disappoints. Sometimes that guy who you believe in your heart-of-hearts is the reason why your favorite show got cancelled and you swore a blood oath you would destroy if you ever met him, does a surprisingly good job. After we watch several auditions for each part, we have conversations about who we liked, what we know of their body of work, and make educated guesses on how we think they would work within the confines of the character. After we come to a consensus, we write an email to the director and the casting director. Usually, about 24-hours later, the director comes back with "ideas." Ugh. Collaboration tries my patience. Inevitably, the director gets his way. Not because he's persuasive enough to convince us that he's right, and we're wrong, but because I work with producers who are directors and they "respect" the director's authority. Personally, I'm a free-market person and if I'm giving you ten million dollars to create my product, I want that product to look like I tell you, and if you won't do it, I'll find someone who can. If I'm looking for an auteur, I'll call Tarantino. Welcome to television, baby.

For the last two weeks, we've had callbacks and auditioned more people in Atlanta and Houston. We still haven't come to a consensus with the director. However, since production starts in a week, we're starting to give in to him. I guess these guys - and I mean, guys. When I use the pronoun "he" to describe the director, I mean "he" as in male because in five years of doing this, only one has been female. One. - know that if he just keeps debating (i.e. stalling) without making an offer to anyone, he'll eventually win because the money is now in play and it's not his money and eventually the clock runs out and we will need an actor on set now. I hate producing! Anyway, I heard one of the producers talking to the director on the phone yesterday and it sounded like he was negotiating. We'll give you your model-turned-actress if we can have our preferred gumpy, weirdo in the lead kid role. I was very disappointed. However, do not despair for me, dear Reader. We have a yellow light - soon to turn green - on our third movie of the season, and it is another large ensemble cast, and I have a brilliant idea for the lead! I love producing!

The New News

2011-05-14T14:42:00.000-07:00

I'm a bit over the 24-hour "news" cycle. And by news, I mean crap that now registers as important information for all Americans to know, but really is just gossip. For instance, is it really important for Americans to know that James Tate in Shelton, Connecticut made a romantic gesture by asking a girl to the Junior Prom by defacing public property and thereby got suspended? Well, the good people at the Nightly News thought so. This, however, should have just stayed on the Walls of all those Shelton H.S. kids FB pages, and did not necessitate the principal to call a press conference. Hey, Brian Williams, this is not the same as using Twitter to topple a repressive regime in Egypt. Are we going to have a follow-up story on Mr. Tate next year on the method he used to ask a girl to the Senior Prom? Because Enquiring minds want to know!

I also do not care that Ashton Kutcher is replacing Charlie Sheen on that awful Chuck Lorre show. This does not qualify as news. It just doesn't. Did Walter Cronkite report on Dick Sergant taking over for Dick York on Bewitched? No. Why? Because it's not news.

I do want to know when the lunatic, fringe became valid, however. We, the People, used to mock and roll our collective eyes at anyone who claimed to have seen Big Foot. Now when the President of the United States shows his birth certificate, we don't believe him and we have to have hours of television time devoted to debating whether a birth certificate from the, well, not-so-great state of Hawaii is valid since Hawaii obviously doesn't care about the Constitution as much as Arizona. I'm not for bullying in the general sense, but a beat down -- or at the very least a beat back -- is in order. But if there's air time to be filled, well why not fill it with complete and utter nonsense and give everyone a shot at being heard? Answer: Because these people are insane. And I don't mean insane = stupid, I mean insane = crazy. When a homeless guy comes up to me on the side of the road and tells me that aliens planted an antennae in his ear, I don't interview the guy and ask him when this occurred and what the aliens looked like, I ask him if he took his meds. Why? Because that is reasonable thing to do. It is unreasonable, not to mention dangerous, to engage and encourage a delusion. That is not news; it's not even entertainment. It is cynical and even slightly cruel.

Last, am I the only person who thought it was weird that I could tune in to CNN on Friday for the Royal Wedding and tune back in forty-eight hours later to see that Osama bin Laden had been killed? It seems like these two events are diametrically opposed and yet there was one channel for both.

Now That's a Uniform

2011-03-23T12:03:00.000-07:00

As a fan of Friday Night Lights and the character of Tyra on said show, Miss Adrianne Palicki has my good will going into her new venture and, yes, I will be tuning in to watch the David E. Kelley reboot of Woman Woman. However, after seeing the new costume (left), I have one worry: Is she really going to run in that bustier? I've worn strapless dresses with the same decolletage in weddings, and let me tell you, one, good "throw your hands up and shout!" and Hello, ladies! One can only hope that this version is the "Formal Ceremony" uniform other than the everyday, work version. Like, you know, the Marine Corps "dress blues" and the Navy's "dress whites". Because regardless that sister is a mythological, Amazonian princess, she's going to be spending a lot of time trying to keep the girls in place and her top up. Not to mention that running in spiked boots will hamper speed and agility, and her ability to do the job to her fullest capabilites. As a modern Wonder Woman, she'd be thinking about these things...at least, her female audience would.

Thought Jumble

2011-02-25T10:49:00.000-08:00

These types of posts aren't really the type of posts I like to compose, but sometimes I feel like a billion things are clambering inside my head and it actually helps to spit them out here:

READ: Did you read the Tina Fey article in The New Yorker? Andi says that everyone thinks that they're Tina Fey or Liz Lemon, but I really do think that she and I would be exceptional friends because, quite frankly, every time I watch 30 Rock, there is something there that I've already thought. We're soul mates. My favorite line from the article? "The deﬁnition of 'crazy' in show business is a woman who keeps talking even after no one wants to fuck her anymore." Ahh, so true. Thank you, Ms. Fey.

HEARD: The Charlie Sheen rant on the radio. Oh. My. God. The very saddest thing about this is that we are watching yet another drug addict self destruct in front of us, and there's nothing we can do about it because this kind of self-destruction has been served up for so long that we make reality shows about it giving these people more money to continue the behavior. With that said, it's the gladiators and public executions all over again, isn't it? Some people want to watch the debacle. Anna Nicole Smith? Michael Jackson? Heath Ledger? For some reason, we like it when the rich and famous die...on our watch. We like to shake our moralistic heads and tut-tut. What makes my stomach clench over this one is that I've met both his dad and his unfamous brother who is a really nice guy, and I would love to send him a note to say how sorry I am that his family is going through this considering I know what its like to have addicts in the family. However, this is Hollywood and I don't want him to think that I'm using a media circus to leverage a relationship. Showbusiness is sick.

DREAMT: I had a strange dream where I met Jeremy Renner while he was playing basketball, and I thought he was a really nice guy, but I couldn't date him because he was the ex-boyfriend of a good friend/roommate of mine. I woke up feeling heart broken.

FELT: Lately, I feel like if my 14-year old self could see me now, she would be extraordinarily disappointed in us."Why are we not rich, famous, married, or a mom? Why are we 0 for 4? WHAT DID YOU DO?! [under her breath] loser." Unfortunately, I keep wondering how to change all this, and -- quite frankly -- I'm at a loss. Any suggestions short of slut'ing it up on a Friday night will be considered.

EMAILED: I sent out a blanket email to all my L.A. friends asking them to do stuff with me. While majority of the people were enthusiastic about their own participation, I still don't have plans until this spring. I think this is really funny because I grew up in Connecticut which has gotten an inordinate amount of snow this year, and yet Californians think that 60-degree whether is too cold. Granted, the gardens (any place that needs flora and/or fauna) should be enjoyed only in those seasons when they, you know, bloom. But the rest of it just feels like laziness on all our parts.

REALIZED: I will have owned my car for a year next month. I have enjoyed not worrying about a vehicle for this entire time, and incidentally, I'm only at 6,ooo miles. *Sigh* It's like a mental message.

KNOW: I'm not supposed to say anything yet, but... Gerard Butler is in my backyard right now. No, I'm not lying. They are using my landlady's house for PSAs, and Gerry, Sean Penn, and some athlete I don't know are all there. They are using my parking space. I left my place at 8:30 this morning, and I was hoping against all hope that he would be arriving then. There was a technician waiting for him, but he hadn't arrived yet, and destiny has deprived me once again. Fickle, Fate! I'm not a fame whore, and I know he's a bastard, but honestly, there is always the one that you would lose your morals for.

Amaze Me

2011-02-10T12:46:00.000-08:00

I just got done reading an amazing article about an amazing new show that will amaze their amazing audiences. Am I the only one who has noticed that everything that used to be fantastic, great, radical, wicked, awesome, cool, and groovy is now amazing? And why is it that this particular variation of "I like it a lot and recommend it to you" actually grates on me? I feel like I hear it all the time. Everything is now amazing. From this sandwich to those jeans to that movie and your ass, everything has become over-the-top, too-good-to-be-true, the best thing EVER. Oh, hyperbole...why won't you die?!

This irritation drove me to Merriam-Webster so I can actually look up the meaning of amaze:

Amaze, from the the Middle English amasen from the Old English a-masian meaning "to confuse." Current definition? (1) to perplex or bewilder. (2) to fill with wonder.

OK, so that new cheese shop fills you with wonder, I'm guessing, because if you're perplexed or bewildered, you're probably from the former Soviet Union and it's 1992. What does wonder mean? Good question.

Wonder, from the German wunder [helpful, M-W, really helpful]. (1) a cause of astonishment or admiration. (2) a quality of exciting amazed admiration [talk about hyperbole. I feel there should be three exclamations after that one]. (3) rapt attention at something awesomely mysterious or new to one's experience.

Wow. Let's just say for arguments sake, you mean (1) a cause of admiration. What does admire mean?

Admire from Middle French (admire is admire in French) and means to marvel in both English and French. On to marvel...

Marvel doesn't seem to have a root language, but it means (1) to become filled with surprise, wonder, or amazed curiosity. (2) to feel astonished or perplexed.

Oy, one more then:

Astonish from the Anglo-French to stun and the Latin to thunder. Current definition is to strike with sudden and usually great surprise.

Gosh, a lot of these just keep going back-and-forth, don't they?

So, we seem to have quickly become a country that is greatly surprised by lots of awesomely mysterious new experiences. Like, you know, cupcakes.

Airhead

2011-02-08T14:14:00.000-08:00

Well, good thing I didn't have a blog resolution for 2011, because I would be failing miserably right now!

Actually, I probably wouldn't be writing now, either if it wasn't for a blank space in my memory. I came over here to see which airlines I've had issue with in the past. Oh, how I do love to write about airline ineptitude! You see, I'm going to New Orleans for Easter this year and none of my beloved smaller airlines fly into the Big Easy meaning I have to take a national carrier. Which would be fine except Delta's flight arrives at midnight! GAH! The next in line for me is American Airlines, but it doesn't seem that LA to NOLA is an AA route, leaving me with United. The problem with United is I can't seem to remember if I hate it! I had a rather awful experience a few years ago trying to fly into South Carolina, and I'll be damned if I can recall whether it was United or US Air. So, I came to my blog. Unfortunately, I didn't start posting on Blogger until 2008, and I think the South Carolina trip was in 2007. Which means that rampage post -- and it was a rampage -- was on my MySpace blog which I deleted along with my MySpace account. Ce la vie. What I did find, however, was a post in 2008 about my Christmas flight into Connecticut. That was US Air. Other than a couple of changes to flight times, I do remember it was an OK experience. So, I'm thinking it was United that gave me the repressed memory.

What have I learned from this? First, keep all blog posts no matter where they were initially written. And second, you will probably continue to hear about my flight issues as they arise because blogging about it will be the only way to keep my memories fresh, my rage in tact, and my vengeance engaged.

Happy Birthday, Betty White

2011-01-24T15:08:00.000-08:00

On January 30th, we will be airing our 241st movie starring Betty White. I recently got back from a trip to Kansas City where we screened the film for our executives. We also brought Betty White in to hob-nob. However, it was also Betty's birthday. Being the Crown, we just couldn't let that go by, could we? Cue the Gospel Choir, confetti canons, and the mailbox prop from the movie in which a very special birthday card was waiting.

That's me in the front row in between Betty and the mailbox with my hands over my face. I thought the confetti canons were going to give the birthday girl a heart attack...

To 2011

2011-01-04T09:15:00.001-08:00

Last week, I read all fifty-one posts of 2010 before writing the last entry, and I'm pleased to say that I've kept resolution #1 of 2010: write a blog at least once a week. While technically, I didn't write every week, I wrote enough to create fifty-two posts and I'm counting that in the Win Column. If you don't like it, start your own blog and make your own resolutions.

Unlike a diary or journal, I do not allow myself to wallow in self-pity or post deep-anxiety in my blog. I do not post some of my more -- shall we say -- less charitable thoughts. While I try to be honest, I also try to be hopeful and thoughtful. The upside of this is that it then allows me to be analytical at the end of the year about my own day-to-day analysis. Because I'm not spattering the blog with my emotions, I'm able to get a clearer understanding of my own thought process. This is sounding very psycho-analytical here, but I am getting to a point. What 2010 showed me was this:

*I still have not separated my eating habits from my financial life. When I feel I have money, I feel I can take better care of my self. After the car issue, I sat at home and ate my anxiety. While I kept my gym membership and had time to go to the gym, I chose to sit on the couch and eat comfort food. As I result, I gained twenty pounds and feel unattractive and unable to engage in the world. (I dreaded going home because I was going to want to hop in pictures with my gorgeous little nieces, but I was going to be unhappy with every picture taken. As a result, I didn't get many and I always feel like I'm cheating my nieces of something. It's bad enough I live miles away, but to purposely cut myself out of the moments of their lives because I don't like the way I look is selfish and cruel.)

*I do better with goals than without them. For all intents and purposes, I am a proactive person. Therefore, if I have no end game in sight, I sit around waiting for something to fall from the sky. I did this in my early twenties and it's how I became a cop. While I wouldn't trade in my cop experience, I should have done what I really wanted which was to move to California.

*I miss close relationships.

Therefore, my resolutions for 2011 are thus:

First Resolution, 2011: Separate my body from my emotions. At the ripe age of 37, it's about time that I realize that I have to take care of my body which is completely different than taking charge of it. This feels very difficult right now because I'm suffering from a cold that makes my head feel like it's going to pop off with the next cough, but no more excuses. To be perfectly blunt, I don't think about my body as anything else than something to be adorned and objectified. So, I've treated my body as if it's a nuisance instead of a very important (and major) piece of myself. I'm not going to be cliche and say, "this is the year I get healthy!" -- which I always think is a metaphor for "THIS is the year I stick to the diet and get sexy so that other people find me attractive!" But this is the year that I claim my body for me. This is going to be a difficult resolution for me, but it's something that I have to get straight in my head.

Second Resolution, 2011: Finish two more screenplays or one book. In 2010, I sent out my picture book to one agent and got rejected. However, I'm going to say that I completed Resolution #2 and #3 of 2010, because it involved writing more and believing in my self. This year's resolution is more about moving forward with my writing life as a whole. Whether I decide to try to sell a screenplay or a book, or possibly getting a job as a writer on a television show, it's important that I start thinking about writing as a way of life instead of as a hobby.

Third Resolution, 2011: Take more opportunities to be social even if that means extending invitations myself. There is no reason why I can't do a weekend trip a month, or have that coffee with that kid I went to grammar school with, or plant trees with Tree People, or join a work colleague at Habitat for Humanity. In my waxing and waning about staying in L.A. or going back east, I've neglected the relationships I actually have on the west coast. Sure, my family and some of my most favorite people live in NYC and Connecticut, but I do have the capability to make close friendships here. In fact, I already have a few very good friends who do live here -- and who I practically ignored through 2010 -- not to mention all those New Yorkers who moved to Seattle and my numerous pledges to get up there and visit them. So instead of whiney about what I'm missing, I'm going to try to do better with what I have, and maybe grow my contacts list here.

I will admit that I made pretty doable resolutions for 2010. I wanted to be able to check them off at the end of the year like an errand check list. Milk, pantyhose, stamps...CHECK! But these are going to be harder because they are asking me to step outside of my normal head space and to take a greater chance on the world around me. They are asking me to risk rejection and failure, two things I have always avoided. So, with that in mind, I ask you to think good thoughts for me and be charitable if you see me failing. It's not easy to change, but it's possible.

Here's to 2011 and possibilities.
Cheers!

NYE in...

2010-12-30T22:11:00.000-08:00

This is my fifty-second post of the year. Next week, I'll post a new New Year's post, but I felt I should tip you off that I'm totally celebrating that I managed to pull this off...

I am still in Connecticut. JetBlue cancelled my flight back to California this evening. I'm torn. There's a part of me that felt this year's trip was a bit short (mostly due to that blizzard), but there is another part of me that really wishes she was in her own bed right now instead of unable to fall asleep in Darien in my sister's basement guest room, wondering if this sore throat is allergies or the beginning of an ear infection.

The older I get this push-pull is getting worse. There is a part of me that fully recognizes that the majority of my VIPs live on the east cost and it would be in my best interest to come back. But there is still a part of me that feels like I can't be my own person if I just come back and be what I've always been -- namely there for everyone else, feeling like an appendage to someone else's experience. As much as I dislike being so far away from the dearly beloved, despite the loneliness that can creep up on me, at least I feel like I'm living my own life. And yet what kind of quality of life am I having if I'm not sharing it with the folks that matter most. It's a conundrum.

I think this is best highlighted by the one thing that is keeping me awake right now: what am I going to do on New Year's Eve? If I was back in L.A., I only have one friend I could call on. But in CT, I have a couple of choices. First, I could babysit my niece, either with my mother or alone. I could call my brother who seems to be having a house party (though its been billed as a "couples party"). Or I could call some New York friends and perhaps go into the city for the night. There is a part of me that says, "call your friends! Be young, single, urban, cool!" There's another part, however, that rationalizes that I'm mega-fat right now and have no hip, cool, NYE in NYC clothes with me, plus Mom is really happy that I'm still in town. This seems yo be my life: unhappy with myself whichever way I go.

My sister asked me about my Plan. For years, I've had a five year plan. But now I don't. I really don't. And I'm vey confused about it. Life was easier when there were set goals. Currently, my life is like my NYE consternation: I don't know what to do. Nothing feels exciting and bold. It all feels worrisome and unfulfilling. Unfortunately, I fear that if I don't do anything, the years are going to just slip by and I'm going to wonder where all the time went one New Year at a time

Professional Gifts

2010-12-23T09:01:00.000-08:00

It is that time of the year when random business partners give you token gifts to thank you for doing the job you get monetarily recompensed for all year long. It is in these moments when three things are exercised:

1) Proof that once again it is the thought that really counts because really, what am I going to do with one beautifully ornate martini glass filled with hard candy? Very pretty, but I don't drink martinis and if I'm going to serve martinis at a party, wouldn't I want a matching set of four or at the very least two?

2) People scrapping together $100 to give 20 co-workers a $5 gift to thank them for doing $50,000 in work at half the pay even in the middle of a horrific recession caused by people consuming goods they really couldn't afford.

3) Gracious acceptance of bars of soap, boxes of candy, and stationary. Don't get me wrong, I love stationary. Unfortunately, I also love my iPad which has access to my email accounts, Facebook, and Word documents. I will use the soap; I will eat the candy; I will write to my grandmother on the stationary. But more than likely, I will re-gift the non-perishable items to my neighbors next year.

Inevitably, every year one of the Runners, Office Assistants, or Receptionist will suggest that we do a Secret Santa, a White Elephant, or a Grab Bag. And every year, I have to be the Scrooge to put the kibosh on it. "It won't be much," s/he sincerely pleads. "It'll only be $5!" To which I have to ask them, "What are you going to buy our boss for $5?" "It's a grab bag!" "Are you going to buy a gag gift?" "Maybe!" S/He impishly smiles. "Why would you waste $5 on something someone is going to look at for two seconds and then put in a drawer never to look at again?" This goes on for sometime until the young person dejectedly walks away from me, but we won't have to do the Secret Santa, White Elephant or Grab Bag, and it's put off until the next year when the new cast of Runners, Office Assistants, or Receptionist have joined the company and think that I'm fun enough to pass this idea by.

Don't get me wrong, I love gifts! I love getting them and giving them. I love wrapping them! The gift thing is totally genius as far as I'm concerned, and I have to say that this year has been a stellar Christmas season as I have not received one gift that I'm secretly planning on putting into my re-gifting box. (Kudos to all those who have put me on your Santa list. To all of you, all I have to say is, "You know me. You really know me." *hugs*) But I find that the pressure to give professional gifts is enormously taxing. Especially as I'm in middle management so I'm still intimately aware that bosses can give really crappy gifts. But I'm also a boss of sorts, and it can get really expensive when you're working with all the assistants all the time asking them for favors beyond their call of duty. I always want to give something that looks more expensive (or is more expensive) than I'm willing to pay. I'm big on gift certificates which becomes an issue because gift certificates don't go on sale. If you want to give, say, five freelance readers a $15 iTunes gift card, you are paying out $75. It's much easier to go to Nordstrom Rack and get $15 lip glosses for $7. (Except maybe Charlie won't appreciate the lip gloss...) Back when I was at the P.D., I would make big baked good baskets. I would make mini muffins or brownies and cookies and just bring them to work and put out in the Break Room with a note. Merry Christmas! It wasn't until I moved to New York that I realized that this gift thing is much bigger in the corporate America. Which is weird because, as I've stated above, I get paid to do my job and if you think that a $5 box of stationary with my initial on it is going to make up for the fact that I didn't get a raise this year, you're drinking the Kool-Aid out of the CEO's mini-fridge. If anything, it makes me more resentful.

There is no easy answer to this token gift thing. It has to be done. It should be done! And I'm not saying that my boss, who makes twenty-thousand more than me a year should buy me a $100 gift to even it out. I just wish there was a way to signal that a charitable donation of $5 to a community service would actually be better than a $7 lip gloss. It would probably be really Scrooge'y (not to mention tacky, tasteless, crass, classless and rude) to post a note on my doorway the weekend after Thanksgiving that says something like, "My charity is Planned Parenthood this year. If you're thinking that you'd like to get me something to show your appreciation for all that I do for you, send them the money instead. Happy Holidays!" Hm. Do you think I could get away with it if use the stationary I received the year before to write it out?

Ordinary People

2010-12-14T15:05:00.000-08:00

George Clooney. Ah, George. The things that I have said about you over the years. When I lived in New York, I would joke that I would meet you and you would see me and drop to one knee to propose. When I was moving to L.A., I would say how I would meet you on set one day, and you and I would become very close public friends but secretly date. When I got a job in the industry, I declared that it was only a matter of time before we were working together and often, like you and the Coen Brothers, but hopefully more like you and the Ocean's Eleven crew because that seemed like more fun. And when you moved your production office into my building, I silently plotted how to get a job as your head of development/personal assistant. And then, dear George, I saw you on the elevator and it was...depressingly ordinary. You are, it seems, just another human being. On a Blackberry. *sigh*

Like lots of boys and girls out there, I wanted nothing but a glamorous life that gave me things like money, prestige, fame, and accolades. Really, is that a lot? And I got involved in a lot of glamorous jobs. Probably none more than the one I currently have. Yet, the funny thing about this job is that I still don't consider it glamorous enough. And there are plenty of people who would agree with me because (A) it's TV movies and those are just ridiculous, and (B) I don't work with people like George Clooney. Because, really, unless you're invited to Julia's New Mexico ranch or George's Lake Cuomo villa, you're really not "in" the glamorous business, are you? You didn't really make it, did you? Everyone's a critic -- including me. There are times when I don't feel like I've "made it" because I'm not hobnobbing with George. And maybe if I could just meet George than that would be the pixie dust to transport my life from overweight, movie-of-the-week go-to gal to the Overnight Sensation That You Absolutely Must Know! But the thing is, even if I did reach across the elevator and tap him, nothing was going to happen other than, more than likely, him looking at me in surprise and confusion, and - let's face it -- disappointment that I recognized him and bothered him, nothing was really going to happen anyway. Mostly because people at George's level are wary of people at my level, because people at my level want people at George's level to pull them up beside them. "I anoint you as the next Overnight Sensation That Everyone Absolutely Must Know!" Not to say that it doesn't happen, it does on , and that's the problem. It leads people to believe that if they work it just right, it'll happen to them. "Hi, George, my name is Callafornia and I work on the 3rd floor in development. If you ever need anything just let me know." *Wink!*

My elevator experience with Mr. Clooney only solidified what I've known for awhile now, that when George sees me, he's not going to propose, befriend me, or even give me a job. He's going to look right through me on the way to his next meeting, while secretly hoping that I don't recognize him or at the very least, to please not bother him. And it was in that moment of finally seeing him, of being in touching distance, really, that I knew I was really over the glamour of the glamorous life. I'm not saying that I didn't forget to breathe for two seconds (I did), but when the surprise wore off, we were still travelling in an elevator and nothing magical was happening and so... well, nothing. And isn't that just a downer?

What I will say is this: it's more fun for me to make up crazy stories about famous people than to actually meet them. And when I do have my slight brushes with fame, it's funnier when I retell the story because then I can put a spin on it. I don't take it seriously...and none of my friends do either. We're all in on the joke at the end of the day, and believe it or not, that means more to me than a two-minute elevator ride with the biggest movie star on planet earth.

Sorry, George.

In Defense of a Good Scrubbing

2010-12-06T11:50:00.000-08:00

When I was a little girl, I felt keenly entitled to being taken care of and any time anyone requested that I help with chores, I would huff with extreme petulance that I was not Cinderella (a book I was fascinated with, and -- oddly -- identified with the heroine regardless that I wasn't forced into indentured servitude by my evil stepmother). My grandfather thought my mother was too easy on me. But my mother had her own mental scars about weekend mornings wasted by doing housework and didn't want to do that to me. (You know, in hindsight, I was a really prissy kid? I wonder how that happened?) I did not do chores. In fact, you could barely get me to put my dirty clothes into the hamper. I resented not being rich. Really, I'm not joking. I used to make pronouncements like, "I'm not learning how to cook! When I'm an adult, I'm going to have a live-in chef!" To which my mother would reply, "You better hope that you're rich." And I would snap back with venom, "I WILL be." Yeah, that didn't work out the way I thought it would...

When I got a little older, I became much more philosophical as to why household cleaning was not to be engaged in. I'm a woman and until a man is willing to do his fair share of the housework, well, I'm not going to do it either! It was a moral stand! How dare my grandfather sit there and read the newspaper telling ME that I should be cleaning the living room. Not to mention that I was of Irish decent and for years Irish girls were indentured as scullery maids. I am not your maid, sir! My outrage ran high.... And then I moved out on my own.

I will admit that even when I lived on my own, I resented housework. Every time I picked up a can of Comet or took out the mop, I'd think of mob caps and pins curls. I'd think of Cinderella every time I had to sweep. But while I can be messy and lazy, I can't really live in dirt. It's gross. Ergo, I had to do what I had to do, so I bore my load and martyred on.

Fast forward to this past weekend. Over the last few weeks, we've been having a cold snap in SoCal, and we've been putting on the heat in the apartment. And as always, after a long summer's rest, the dormant heaters rush back to life pushing nine months of accumulated dirt and dust into the sealed off apartment. Since I've been waking up feeling congested, I realized that it was time for a spring cleaning. I was mainly interested in getting up the dirt and grime and less interested in the chores that are normally done in the name of a clean house like the bathroom. The bathroom will always be cleaned as it's a necessity as far as I'm concerned (seriously, how does one get oneself cleaned in a moldy shower stall?). I pulled everything out of my closet, out of my bedroom and used the broom on the ceiling, on the baseboards, and even high up on the walls not to mention the wood floors. I took out the comet and scrubbed the kitchen counters, the microwave, the toaster oven, and the stove backsplash. I took out the Swifter Wetjet and cleaned the floors, and Pledged the wood furniture. I pulled out the couch, and rolled up the carpet. I vacuumed. And I laundered linens. My fingers pruned and I smelled like four kinds of detergent, but by seven o'clock last night, I was done. And I felt...proud and accomplished. Weird.

I will not be hanging up my corner office aspirations to take up with Merry Maids, but I will say that there's something clearing about cleaning one's space. A mental preparation for something new maybe. Or perhaps just the pragmatic knowledge that I can drop something on the floor and not have to worry about picking it up. Whatever the reason, I'm beyond my childish notion that cleaning is a service that the poor and downtrodden perform for their "betters." In fact, there's something to be said for doing a task that requires a little physical labor in a time when nearly everything else is done sitting down behind a computer. And while I still enjoy utilizing my mind to the best of its ability, sometimes it's nice to just shut it off and do something with the rest of my body.

It's Coming on Christmas

2010-12-02T17:32:00.001-08:00

I've been listening to 103-KOST or "the Coast" which plays constant Yuletide fare until midnight December 25th. Usually one Christmas song becomes my anthem for the season. My first year in L.A., it was "I'll be Home for Christmas" as I was surprising my mother by flying in for the holiday. Another year it was "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas" as it was 80-degrees right up until I got on a plane heading east where Connecticut had already gotten three feet of snow. Last year, it was "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" because of that scene in Meet Me in St. Louis when Judy Garland sings it to Margaret O'Brien to assure her that no matter where the family is, they will be together at Christmas. This year? "It's coming on Christmas" by Joni Mitchell. A song, mind you, that I wasn't familiar with until You've Got Mail. (What can I say, my family was more pop rockers than classic folk kinda people.) The first stanza of the song really speaks to how I feel about my move to California. (The second stanza is about choosing career over love which has nothing to do with me at all.) But that line about having a river to skate away on speaks to the rough year I've had. Between you and me? I'm very glad 2010 is almost over.

IT'S COMING ON CHRISTMAS

It's coming on Christmas
They're cutting down trees
They're putting up reindeer
And singing songs of joy and peace
Oh I wish I had a river I could skate away on
But it don't snow here
It stays pretty green
I'm going to make a lot of money
Then I'm going to quit this crazy scene
I wish I had a river
I could skate away on
I wish I had a river so long
I would teach my feet to fly
Oh I wish I had a river
I could skate away on

The People I Will See

2010-11-22T11:24:00.000-08:00

You know I'm getting lazy when I post these kinds of blogs...

So, we had another screening at the Fox lot the other night, and I usually find that the movies I don't like have better turn outs than the movies I do like. Our newest Movie of the Week (MOW) stars John Corbett, Sarah, Paulson, Karen Allen, and Sam Elliott. And three out of the four showed up to the screening with Sam bringing his wife Katharine Harris of The Graduate fame.

Sometimes these events are surreal. The actors stay in the corner getting their picture taken while the faithful approach for a benediction...or something. I'm never quite sure. Nine times out of ten, the actor is also dressed 100% better than everyone else in the room. "Oh, there's X." Hair done. Make-up done. It's very lookie-loo. As for the actor, s/he looks terrified or completely remote. "Please, don't come over here." But this time, they roamed around, talked to people, and pretty much acted like everyone else. Which was kinda cool. Karen Allen kept getting lost in the crowd. Seriously, unless you knew she was an an actor in the film, she just looked like a really pretty and put together woman of a certain age. As for John and Sam, well, feel free to chat 'em up! John was especially genial. Too bad I had to leave early or else I would have probably been doing shots at the bar with him.

Hmm, on second thought, maybe it's best that I did leave early. Especially since I SAW HUGH LAURIE! Oh, I'm sorry, was I screaming like a little girl? As I walked up the stairs to parking level two, I looked down and right into the face of House himself. I tried to find a reason to slow my gait and get a better look at him, but all I had in my hands were my car keys and it was really cold outside. Oh well.

I think the next screening is on the Fox lot again come January. I'm totally losing 50lbs and bringing a clutch that I can spill at a moments notice carrying a change purse that doesn't snap quite right and business cards. Lots and lots of business cards! Hugh Laurie is British, those people are oh-so-proper. He would total stop and help me pick it up, right? Hey, a girl has got to have a plan...

The Places I Will Call

2010-11-19T11:35:00.000-08:00

On a recent House episode, House calls the CDC in regards to a theory on small pox. He poses as a screenwriter. "Hi, I'm writing a screenplay. Is it possible that the small pox can survive for 200 years in a sealed glass jar on the ocean floor?" House holds up the phone and the guy on the other end says, "Well, theoretically, yes, it could..." House promptly hangs up on him. This sequence made me laugh because I make phone calls like that at least twice a month. "Hi, I'm calling from a movie production company in Los Angeles. We're working on a film and I have a quick question that I hope you can answer...."

Today, I made a phone call to Scripps Institute of Oceanography down in San Diego to ask them how to pronounce "Marianas Trench." We're in post-production on a movie and suddenly everyone's wondering if the actor said the word right. This has become part of my job. For some unknown reason, I am now the girl to go to if you have an obscure question that needs to be answered.

On Wednesday, I called Sunset Beach Town Hall in North Carolina to ask them about the Kindred Spirit mailbox. Mary said that she didn't know the history of the mailbox, but Judy should. But Judy was at lunch. When Judy called me back, she gave me Bill's home phone number. I called Bill yesterday. Bill is the Chairman of the Bird Island Preservation Society and did indeed know the history of the mailbox and also gave me the number of the person who put it up and tends it. I'm saving that information for the script process.

I also called the American Physical Therapy Association in Virginia to find out if a person with a MPT (Masters of Physical Therapy) would have the title of Doctor since our Art Department on one of films thought it was appropriate to put Dr. in front of a character's name, followed by MPT. APTA confirmed one can get a doctorate in Physical Therapy, but would have to complete a DPT (Doctorate of Physical Therapy). There's going to be a lot of CGI'ing on that one...

Back in August, I called the USO to find out what was served at the USOs back in WWII (whatever they could get donated). I called the Atlanta VA Medical Center to find out what volunteers are able to do at the local VAs past filing and making copies of files (yes, they can read to the vets). I called the L.A. Naval Recruiting Office to find out how old a chaplain can be (they top out usually at 42).

For the same project, I called the Atlanta History Center who directed me to the Kenan Research Center in regards to where Navy troops would have shipped out from Georgia for the Pacific theater. Mark said that they would have been put on a train to the west coast where they would have been shipped out from San Diego. So then I called the Southeastern Railway Museum in Duluth and spoke to Jeff about the path the train would have taken from Atlanta to San Diego and exactly which ones of the Atlanta area train stations are still around today (none, but Jeff could tell you the number of the train and what track it went out on!).

In the spring, I called a farm in Rhode Island to find out if local farms could be both a Christmas tree farm and a fresh produce farm (they can). I called the Salt Lake City school board to ask about integrating homeless students into public schools in the 1980s. I called Macy's in New York to ask permission if a character could work for them, and I called Amherst college in Massachusetts to ask if a character could go to their school (yes and yes). I called Century 21 about how real estate agents get their listings.

I used to hate making these phone calls. I used to scour the internet looking for answers before picking up the phone and just calling. However, I don't mind as much any more (unless it's a truly trivial question in which the answer is pretty evident). Why? Mainly because people are really helpful. Most people, when getting an out-of-the-blue phone call from a production company in Los Angeles are excited to answer whatever ridiculous question I can ask. And by the end of it, I'm usually getting invited out to wherever the person is. Which I think is pretty nice. "Make sure you call me if your ever in North Carolina," Bill said yesterday. "Stop by the farm if you're ever passing this way," invited the Rhode Island farmer. Amherst wanted me to send me a sweatshirt. Century 21 sent the set a real golden blazer and name tag with the character's name on it (we used it in filming). Macy's wanted to know if I could send a copy of the movie to them for their archive (which is interesting, especially if you've seen their new commercial in which they use clips from TV and movies with characters saying "Macys" -- our film did not make the cut). I won't go so far as to say that people are nice in general. My years as a cop taught me that they're not. And if I just called up and asked, "how do you pronounce Marianas?" I probably would be hung up on. But for the most part, I think people like to be useful.

At the end of every conversation, I tell the person the name of the movie, the month and station it will be broadcast on. Not only is it good marketing for the film, but because I know that it means something to people to see their contribution pay off. Even if it is only a farm that has both a Christmas tree lot and produce gardens.

Making a List

2010-11-09T16:30:00.000-08:00

Just last night, I emailed a bunch of family members and parents of godchildren to gather the Christmas lists. I'm like Santa Claus only on a restrictive budget. In hindsight, I don't know how my single mother did it. Two kids, one paycheck? And yet Santa was very generous every year. I think lay-away had something to do with it. Anywhooo...

What I really love about getting the Christmas lists is to see who these kids are turning out to be. Sarah loves art projects and at seven is currently becoming a label shopper. Which Cracks. Me. Up. As so was her mother once upon a time. Sarah is into Justice. I had never heard of it before, and quite frankly, other than the sequins and the glitter, I kinda don't get it. But at least it's not adult-wear cut for kids, if you know what I mean. It's very conservative. Which I find interesting as her mother was a very conservative dresser, too, back when we were teens (still is; she has this adorable cardigan with sheep on it). I was also told about Sillybanz. Have you seen these? Honestly, what is it about kids that they suddenly all need the something at the same time? Reminds me of when I suddenly had to have a Cabbage Patch Kid when I really didn't care about them a month before Christmas. Sarah's sister Kathryn, however, is a Momma's Girl. Totally loves her baby dolls and Barbies. Which, hello!, BARBIES! I get Kathryn. I bought her a baby doll last year, however, and her mother says that the dolls are getting a bit out of control, so I'm not allowed. Kinda breaks my heart a little. But only a little as my sister has shared with me that her one-year old is showing up at Mommy & Me classes and ganking other little girls' dolls. YAY! I mean, not for rolling Mommy & Me classmates, but giving Auntie an opportunity to buy a Christmas doll! I'm waxing and waning between Itty Bitty at 15" complete with book and teddy bear and Corolle Calin at 12" made with low toxic plastics and machine-washable body. Decisions, decisions!

There are only three boys on my list this year: 6, 3, and almost 2. I do not find boys fun to buy for. It's all lights, noise, and hard plastics. I think I'm suffering some PTSD from Christmases past when my cousins used to wheel their lunking toys around and somehow I always got smacked in the head. ("Dump trucks don't fly, Jason!" Oh, sorry, flashback.) So, far it seems like it may be a Very Lego/Duplos Christmas for these fellas.

All in all, I think I'm just excited about Christmas in general as I didn't take a vacation this year (I bought a car instead. *Sigh* I'm still not over that injustice), so I'm really looking forward to getting away for a little while even if it is only going to Connecticut. But Connecticut certainly has it charms. Snow, ice skating, hot chocolate that actually warms up your insides on a cold, wintry day...not to mention some pretty adorable kids who are going to love me when I show up with Barbie shaped Sillybandz!

Shiny, New Hope

2010-11-02T17:30:00.001-07:00

What did I say about my book getting rejected? Uh, yep. I also got a formal phone call from Disney telling me that I did not get the job, which I thought was nice of them since they kinda informed me the week before that I wasn't going to get it. And while last week I felt bereft, disappointed, and rejected, this week, I've got a little perspective and can actually feel -- what's that? ahh, yes -- gratitude.

The thing is, everyone who rejected me did it very gently and kindly, and in fact, offered up hope. According to Disney, the Senior Vice President liked me a great deal, but felt I didn't have enough experience, and in another year or two, who knows? In the meantime, they'd like to consider me for other positions, if that's OK? Yeah. Yeah, that's fine. I'll take that. And the agent who rejected the book stated that it took her awhile to make a decision as she really liked the concept and it worked for the most part, but the execution was a bit old fashioned. While I had left my heroine an avatar for the reader, today's picture book market requires a protagonist with a fully formed personality, warts and all. In fact, the agent sorta suggested that I use the kind of voice that I use in my adult humor books. Huh! Who would have thunk it? Neither one of the these rejectionists had to give me much past a "thanks, but no thanks" leaving me to wonder if I was a loser with bad breath and a neanderthal I.Q. (What can I say, I'm very hard on myself), but both actually left me feeling pretty good about myself. As someone who writes reject letters once a month, I know the difference between a brush off and a considered response, and I am grateful for the time and thought these individuals put into rejecting me. Who knew that was possible?

It's funny what a few days can do. Last week, the sky was falling and it was all rejection and dejection. This week, it's all rainbows and butterflies and self affirmation. Next week, I'll probably pick myself up and start the process all over again with shiny, new hope.

The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

2010-10-26T11:42:00.000-07:00

I think I need to buy all my godchildren and nieces the Judith Voist book, Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. Why? Because I'm thinking I need to re-read it myself to see how it ends. Today, dear reader, I'm having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. First, I decided to email the recruiter at Disney about the position I interviewed for only to find out that their number one candidate is coming in for an interview this afternoon and if it goes well, they're going to extend an offer to her. Then I started to get emails from the Writers Guild of America and some lawyers about the automatic arbitration that is currently happening in conjunction with one of our productions, and it seems I made a mistake and sine the mistake I made was with the craziest of the crazies, I'm going to have to pay, pay, pay...and email the company's lawyer every action I've made since 2006 with this project. If I ever needed a hope of a new job, today would be the day.

Most people probably notice ebbs and flows of bad times and good times. I have noticed, however, that all my bad times come together. Like when one famous person dies, we all wait for two more to drop. This expectation of bad things cause me stress. Bundles of stress that make me want to throw up and cry all at the same time. For the most part, the boredom of my life can overwhelm me with ennui, but when the bad times come, I want to duck and take cover, and I long for yesterday when my biggest concern was whether to get take out or make dinner. Literally, I don't want to walk outside today. I don't want to drive. But since my book is still out with an agent, I'm just going to assume that that's the last of the bad things. I'll get rejected at some point this week. Better now than later, however. I would hate for that to be a harbinger of more terrible, horrible, no good, very bad days.

And Now I Know

2010-10-12T11:18:00.001-07:00

Things I've learned this week:

*Martha Plimpton of Goonies fame and recently of Raising Hope is Keith Carradine's daughter! What!

*My godson is actually three and not two. (Good thing I caught that one before sending out the "You're 2!" birthday card.)

*I love dark and dreary days now that I live in the land of perpetual sunshine.

*Johnny Depp is 47! FORTY-SEVEN!

*I can go three days without my cell phone and not notice. (I left it in a purse I used over the weekend and only thought to look for it today.

*George Washington wrote about a two party system, "the alternate domination of one faction over another, sharpened by the spirit of revenge, natural to party dissension, which in different ages and countries has perpetrated the most horrid enormities, is itself a frightful despotism." Which means the contention in the nation's capitol has been going on since the first presidency, and I shouldn't be all that alarmed.

*George Washington had dentures made out of the pulled teeth of his slaves. Erm...

Stress Me Not

2010-10-06T09:30:00.000-07:00

Hear ye, hear ye! I'm back on track! This is the 41st week of the year and this is my 41st post. I'd like to thank the month of July which allowed me to catch up and get a bit ahead. Thank you, July.

I had a face-to-face interview at Disney yesterday, something I've known about since Friday. What I've come to realize is that I don't deal well with stress and anxiety. Over the last few days, all I've been able to eat is pasta with butter, toast, cheese sticks, and sometimes I could force down chicken; but for the most part, I was sick to my stomach all the way down to my lower intestines. Gurgle, gurgle.

This is not something I've dealt with my entire life. I used to get butterflies in my stomach when I was younger and forced to give a class presentation. When I hit my teen years, my stomach would clench whenever I was forced to speak in public (and not in a cheerleading uniform). But about ten years ago, when I first had to stand up in front of a romance conference and pass myself off as a professional, I spent nearly three days in the bathroom afraid that whatever I put into my mouth wouldn't stay there. The pinnacle being the hour that led up to the moment. I was stuck in the bathroom listening to all those women talk about me without knowing who I was. About three years after that, I was lined up for my sister's wedding procession and had to duck into the lavatory at the top of the stairs, my mother shouting for me when it was just about my turn. Any big moment in my life now seems cause me to lose my lunch or at the very least dry heave. So, when I got the phone call that the Senior Vice President wanted to meet with me and promptly started to receive paperwork that would verify my employment should an offer be extended, my esophagus closed up and my GI track shut down.

There is one silver lining to this terrifying phenomenon: I think I lost five pounds in four days!

As for Disney, cross your fingers one and all. Just remember: If I get this job, I get free park hopper passes to the parks! There's something in this for all of us.

Lovely Things

2010-09-28T16:23:00.001-07:00

So many lovely things have happened recently, and I simply must share them...

1) About two weeks ago, I went down to the mailbox to get the mail and under the mat was a FedEx envelope addressed to me. Inside the FedEx envelope were American Express gift certificates totaling $250. There was no note inside, so I researched the sender: Millward Brown, a marketing company with offices both in L.A. and NYC. At first, I was terrified that I unknowingly signed up for a new credit card with a 50% APR, but come to find out, I filled out a survey for Hollywood Reporter and won a sweepstakes! I never win anything, so -- YAY! I bought a customized frame for that Emily Dickinson house poster I bought around my birthday.
(a) I went to Aaron Brothers to frame the art and then noticed that Michael's Craft across the parking lot was having a 60% sale of customized framing. I saved $300! Woo-Hoo!
(b) The frame is ready one week early! I'm trying not to leave work right now...

2) I finally, finally heard from Disney in regards to a resume I submitted. It's only taken ten years and numerous submissions for multiple jobs. But! I had a very good phone interview, and John said that he was going to put my name forward as a candidate, but if this particular opening didn't happen for me, he'd like to keep my resume on file as he's the recruiter for three different Disney divisions. (Yes, please!) Fingers crossed, though, that the Vice President of the Disney Channel wants to meet with me to discuss "my qualifications further" as this job is perfect -- seriously-- for me, my abilities, and what I'd like to be when I grow up. Share The Secret and The Power with me, won't you? Good thoughts, good thoughts, good thoughts.

3) My boss decided that instead of updating the office laptops, we would all get iPads. I have an iPad. I don't known how to use it, but I have very high hopes for myself that my learning curve isn't too steep.

4) One of my brothers was visiting this past weekend with his lovely girlfriend. Due to circumstances beyond our control, my brothers did not have an especially close relationship with my sister and me. But I'm grateful we've been trying to rectify that situation now that we're adults.

5) My boss gave me another good piece of news, but I'm not allowed to talk about it. But I'm pleasantly pleased.

I don't ask for much out of my life. Even though I tend to be wary and pessimistic, I can usually embrace the happiness. These are moments people live for. No matter how menial, they should be celebrated. Lovely things are hard to come by. I'm going to enjoy them while they're here.

Name Dropper

2010-09-22T12:34:00.001-07:00

A couple weeks ago, I received a forwarded email from my boss with an attachment. The attachment was a script we've purchased and the email was from Jamie Lee Curtis, actress, wife of Christopher Guest, daughter of Janet Leigh of PSYCHO fame and Tony Curtis of SOME LIKE IT HOT fame. I have Jamie Lee Curtis's email address...and had an irrational desire to email just to say "hi, remember me? I almost took you out with the office door? Remember that? Yeah, hi."

I was recently talking to my therapist about the fact that I love my job and hate my job at the same time. I love what I do, but I can't really talk about it without feeling like I'm bragging. Because -- hello! -- I get to meet famous people. When I inadvertently name drop, I feel like I'm purposely name dropping, but I can't help it because sometimes I'm genuinely excited. (Jamie Lee sooo nice!) But sometimes I'm genuinely perturbed. ("Call me Love"? *Gag*) But depending on who you are, you might either be impressed or repulsed when it happens, and I'm very cognizant of it. So, I'm torn. There's moments when I don't want to talk about my job at all. I don't want to be one of "those" people. Always ready with some production drama or actor gossip. People have whole careers based on it. At the same time, I'm not completely without my own petty indulgences. (There is currently a plan afoot to smoke George Clooney out of his office with some burnt toast. Camera phone will be ready!) Fame, and it's effect on people, is a weird thing. Which brings me back to JLC (hey, we have the same initials! It's a sign, doncha think? BFFs. Totally).

It must be weird to be famous. In JLC's case, she grew up with famous parents (one, who infamously made a mean comment about Marilyn Monroe -- bad Tony!) then starred in the cult classic Halloween at the age of 18. She's pretty much been known ever since. Which means millions of people know who she is, and she probably knows a couple thousand. A few hundred semi-well. About twenty, intimately. However, she'll be stopped on the street by strangers who think they know her and want to have an authentic interaction which might truly lead to BFF-dom or at the very least, a great story to tell everyone on Thanksgiving. It's strange. Anonymity is held cheaply by those who have it. But try to be on a popular sitcom and get onto a plane, and you'll have seven people stop you to take a picture and comment on your last job performance. And, no matter what kind of day you're having, you have to be nice to them. Think about that. I barely like most of the people I do know, I couldn't imagine having to pacify strangers.

I will not be emailing JLC. I will respect her boundaries. After all, I wouldn't email any other stranger who I almost plowed over with a door. But if I did, I'm sure she wouldn't mind. She's, like, so incredibly nice! We could totally be good friends. Sadly, we will never know...

Mea Cupla

2010-09-16T09:33:00.000-07:00

I was doing pretty well there with the posting until a month ago and then I just fell down on the job. It's not that I haven't thought about blogging, I have. But I also have been so consumed with my job that it's been difficult to generate any enthusiasm to create more work even if it is in the name of fun. On the flip side, what little writing I have eeked out has been done either in my journal or on a screenplay that I've been writing. In other words, my real life has intruded.

I come to the Internet for a lot of things -- entertainment, socializing, research, etc. -- but when you lump it all together, what I really come here for is to fill time. Sometimes I log on with the same existential angst that drives me to the fridge three times in thirty minutes. I'm looking for something to sate my boredom, my need to commune, and to relieve this feeling that there's got to be something more to this thing called Life than what I'm doing in the moment which is usually nothing. However, as with the fridge, the Internet usually just lets me down. Sometimes, on the very rare occasion, there is cake I've forgotten or a missed episode of Modern Family, but for the most part...nada.

When my real life rears its head, however, I become incredibly entangled in what's happening in the moment and all other things need to go on the back burner. What I find funny about these times is that people get irritated with my lack of attention to them. I got a phone call from New York last night admonishing me for not answering my phone two nights earlier and not calling this person back. Another friend, who never calls me, admonished me for not checking in with her because she hadn't heard from me in so long. Don't get me wrong, these people are not high maintenance -- I got rid of those people -- but these encounters do make me realize that my life is usually a nice sedate pace, and -- for a lack of a better word -- boring. I'm usually up for anything because I'm not doing anything else. I will admit to you, dear reader, that I like a bit of boredom because boredom is manageable. You get to decide how to be un-bored. It's hard to shake when you're in the doldrums, but for the most part, there is not high drama that needs to be triaged and neutralized. I prefer that. Hence, why I'm single.

Even though I haven't been blogging, I have wanted to make some observations here, and I think I'll be able to squeeze one in soon. However, since most of my fellow bloggers haven't updated in awhile, I'm going to guess that summer has been pretty hectic for most of us. And for the rest of you...well, I hope there was cake in your fridge.

Sunday Night

2010-08-16T14:52:00.000-07:00

Now that So You Think You Can Dance is over, there is only one night a week that I watch television. Sunday night. Why? True Blood, Mad Men, and Rubicon. Except, they're all kinda pissing me off. Is it me or...

is True Blood especially bloody this season? I mean, wasn't the whole premise that the vampires now had the synthetic blood to drink and therefore it was safe for vampires and humans to mingle? I mean, sure, this whole season seems to be about the fact that vampires and humans are not really equal -- or even remotely alike -- but then again who the heck in Bon Temps is actually human? Seriously, people. I know I should accept a certain about of blood in a TV show about vampires, but this is a blood bath! (Or, as last night's episode showed, a blood shower...)

is True Blood especially misogynistic this season? From Bill throwing a flaming torch at Lorena's head and setting her on fire to Bill twisting Lorena's head around while raping her as she declared her undying love for him; to Bill feeding off of Sookie until she's almost dead to her just forgiving him and jumping in the sack with him by the end of the next episode because she just loves him sooo much; to Tara's weirdly fun and sadistic relationship with Franklin, all the women on this show are suffering from Battered Woman Syndrome, and I'm finding it a little uncomfortable.

is Mad Men especially depressing this season? Don Drapper as a divorced alcoholic = no fun at all. Even his womanizing is now creeping me out (Anna's niece? Ew).

is Mad Men revealing a little too much in the damaged side of their characters? I'm looking for a little redemption here, people, and that New Year's Eve episode was almost my undoing. No, not Layne Price, Don! Betty is an unrelenting, miserable shrew. One felt bad for her when Don was cheating on her, but now that she's divorced her vendetta against the man is almost unpalatable and it makes Henry Francis less of a man in the process. Thank god for Peggy.

is Mad Men gearing up for Stonewall? The riot happened in 1969, and it's only just 1965 in the show, but almost every episode this season there has been a gay vibe to it. From Lee Jr. forcing everyone to take a turn on Roger's lap to Don and Layne being identified as "queer" on New Year's Eve to Peggy's new lesbian friend, it definitely feels that way. Just bring Sal back already!

is Rubicon going to say that 9/11 is a conspiracy? Right in the pilot, they let you know that Will's family perished at the top of the World Trade Center where he was supposed to meet them. Um, WHY were they at the top of the WTC on a Tuesday morning at 8:30AM? The restaurant didn't open until lunch. I'm completely ambivalent about Rubicon right now. I adore James Badge Dale. (He's my new fake husband.) But I cannot stand one of the executive producers of the show! (Side effect of working in Hollywood.) Plus shows like this never end up being as smart as they want you think they are. (See, Lost.) I'm watching for now, but there's already little tiny cracks in my interest. Fissures that might just break wide open and make me pissed off that I ever spent one minute of my life watching it. I'm just putting it out there....

A Little Personality

2010-08-12T08:06:00.001-07:00

One of my little nieces has been very sick recently and continues to be in the hospital. Complications from her surgery last year, it seems. She's doing fine today and doctors say she might be able to go home on Saturday. Through it all, I've been very calm. Unlike last year when I was a complete mess. But Cara is quite the little trooper. And believe me when I tell you, the kid seems to be a daredevil, too. When I last saw her back in May, she was so very confidant that she was bodily throwing herself off the couch head first...at eight months. It was enough to give me a heart attack. Strangely, because of her innate fearlessness, I have a feeling that the only thing that is ever going to slow this kid down are things that will be beyond her control. Other than that? Look out world.

About seven years ago, one of my very close friends gave birth. I visited her about three months into her new motherhood. The baby, Sarah, calmly watched me as I fed her a bottle. The steadiness of her gaze, the curve of her lip, gave me the feeling that she wasn't too impressed with me. While usually babies will look at you blankly or close their eyes contentedly or wait happily to see what you're going to do next, this kid was considering me, dare I say judging me. It was a bit disconcerting. From the moment I met her, I knew that Sarah was going to be Serious. (And boy is she ever.) Don't get me wrong, she's still a carefree, jubilant child. But she considers. She is a thinker. Always has been, always will be. But it was the first time that I ever noticed that babies come pre-programmed with a definite personality past the bland Happy Baby and Cranky Baby monikers kids are slapped with.

The twins seem very much like babies I've seen before (probably their father, my brother). While Cara goes head first into the world, Chloe seems to be a bit more hesitant. While she too went for the edge of the couch, she thought twice about swinging her body over the side. She voiced her need for help, and my brother put her down next to the already-on-the-ground Cara. Abby, for her part, is a watcher. An observer. Why bother getting involved when you can just entertain me from here? Thanks...

I'm excited to see these three grow up, even if it is from a distance. These days, I've been wondering how I can close the 3,000 mile gap, but nothing is presenting itself. In the meantime, I will try to get to the houses of the babies in my immediate vicinity (yeah, A., I'm looking at you and J.), and appreciate small toes and fingers and fine baby hair, and little emerging personalities.

Today

2010-08-04T17:49:00.000-07:00

My brain is on fast forward today. Things I'm thinking:

1) I cannot believe that my gorgeous twin nieces are one today. I'm seriously missing me some baby right now.

2) I'm missing baby so much right now that I texted my sister that she needs to get on a plane with her baby -- my other niece -- and come visit me. When she shot me down, I promptly booked my flight back to Connecticut for Christmas.

3) I booked my flight home for Christmas. Let me tell you something, it was pricey this year, and I had an awful feeling it was only going to get worse.

4) I need more money for a few reasons: (a) I need a vacation; (b) it would be nice to go back east for a week or two (see 1 and 2); (c) see 3.

5) I bought a belated birthday gift for myself. I saw this on Romancing the Tome (see Blogs I Read and You Can Too) and had to buy one. It was between the Flannery O'Connor house or the Emily Dickinson house because blue and pink are accent colors in my bedroom where the poster will hang. The Dickinson house won only because its Massachusetts and I'm a New England snob.

6) I want that poster to arrive, like, now.

7) I want to go home now. The funny thing about that statement is that I'm not thinking of a particular place, but a feeling. I want to feel calm, at peace, and content. I'm done with the running around, pursuing a career, and trying to gain or acquire something. I want to live the life of a dilettante. I want to have a very nice house by the Atlantic Ocean where small nieces can come to visit and where I can write whatever piece of literature I want whether it be a romance novel, screenplay, or kids picture book without worrying about how I'm going to finance such a life.

I'll Tell You a Story

2010-08-03T09:33:00.000-07:00

When I was a little girl living on Candy Lane, my mother used to take me to the library once a week to pick out a stack of books. I loved this ritual. Really, I can't express the brilliance of going to a place where books are stacked to the ceiling once a week, pick out ten titles, read them over and over for seven days then bring them back and pick out ten new titles. Who ever came up with this, must have had a place in his heart for novelty or known small children who bore easily. Anyway... One of my favorite kind of books to borrow were picture books. The kinds with no text. Why? Because I liked to make up my own story. In fact, I was pretty sure I was very good at this storytelling and used to make everyone in the house -- mother, grandfather, uncle, baby sister, babysitter -- listen to me while pointing out the pictures. And can I just tell you, sometimes one page would take three minutes. (I was very long-winded as a child. I bet you're shocked!) Flash forward thirty years....

After a business trip to New York where I met up with a friend and her six-year old daughter, I was inspired to write a children's picture book about the experience. I came home, wrote up the text, and sent it off to my former roommate and asked her to illustrate. The pages came last week with my birthday card. Over the weekend, I laid out the pictures to rewrite and shape the text so that visuals and story flowed seamlessly. About mid-way through the project, I got light-headed and had a bit of a flashback to when I was a young girl racing outside to show my father a picture book I got from the library and to tell him the story that I imagined it told. Here was that same exact experience, but this time in real life. It was no longer a fantasy, I was actually writing the story the pictures told.

Whether the book gets picked up by an agent or whether it gets published is almost not the point (almost), but it occurred to me that I've been a very fortunate individual. I have lived out most of my childhood dreams and fantasies. I have created them and made them into adult experiences. And that does count for something.

It's My Birthday, Too

2010-07-23T09:07:00.000-07:00

Today is my birthday. And these are things I'm thinking:

1. I love cupcakes.
2. What's the chances of me winning the lottery today? I'm going to buy a ticket just in case.
3. I had a lovely dream last night that included a very nice looking man...and a professional football team photo shoot (I don't know).
4. I would like to go to the beach and read all day, but then again spending my birthday alone seems pathetic even if it is what I would like to do.
5. I need to buy that Tommy Hilfiger dress I tried on three weeks ago.
6. I have now told about twenty people that I have no plans for my tonight, but secretly I do. It involves a delicate salad and a glass of champagne. But that sounds boring and people just wouldn't understand, so I refuse to admit to it.
7. I can't decide whether I want to see Despicable Me or Salt this weekend. Why do these decisions seem to have more weight around my birthday?
8. I don't know where I want to go to lunch and in about one hour this will be all anyone will ask me.
9. This year, I will lose weight!
10. I forgot my cell phone at home (it was plugged in). I don't know what's worse: dreading all the missed calls and texts or getting home and realizing no one called me.

Sister Gaga

2010-07-19T16:38:00.000-07:00

I recently watched the new Lady Gaga video, Alejandro. It reminded me a lot of the Madonna videos from the 1990s, and maybe even a little of the event videos of Michael Jackson. It seems we have found the heir apparent and it wasn't Justin, Usher, or Brittany, baby. Of course, Gaga is like Madonna is other ways, too, but her desire to make "performance art" might just be another way to say "reinvention" and "pushing boundaries" which is totally the Material Girl.

While watching the video, I couldn't help but to think of Like a Prayer. I don't know if anyone went ballistic over the obvious nun/martyr nod in Alejandro, but I do recall the rage that Madge encountered by showing a black Jesus and some burning crosses. However, as a Catholic, I'm pretty sensitive to Catholic symbology, and I found it very interesting that both Ms. Ciccone and Ms. Germanotta -- Roman Catholics -- chose to go balls out for their Mother Church. Because, basically, both videos are a big middle finger to its religious rhetoric and dogma. Lots of blasphemy and sacrilege in both. Makes me nervously giggle, "You're sooo going to Hell!" Like when DeeDee and Shannon used to wear dangle'ly earrings and blue eyeshadow to school. (H. E. Double L.) But it also made me question why Catholicism is such a breeding ground for artistic expression. What is it about it's restraints that causes some Catholics to want to push back against the wall? Maybe it's the fact that so much art has been made in the name of the Church. Maybe its the fact that the imagery is so iconic that its easier to reference. Maybe it is the repression of self and self-flagellation martyrdom. I don't know. But it is quite fascinating when you start to really think about it.

I like that there is a new artist out there that is making music videos relevant again. (OK, somewhat relevant. More like entertaining, but let's not split hairs.) And regardless of the fact that her soul is so obviously damned, I'll be waiting to see what she does next.

Out of It

2010-07-17T14:00:00.000-07:00

I was interviewing a young, just-out-of-college twenty-something-year old who mentioned that she worked for some rapper's indie label, and I had no clue who she was talking about. However, my equally young but-not-as-young-as-the-interviewee colleague knew exactly who she was talking about. As my colleague is not exactly a hip, edgy urbanite who would know who an obscure rapper is, he must be popular enough to have penetrating the In The Know zeitgeist. It seems, I am now officially Out of The Know. According to all marketers and advertisers, once you're on the other side of 34, you are no longer a desirable demographic. IE, your expendable cash is now going towards mortgages, college tuition, and whatever insane thing your 10-year old harps and harps and harps on you to buy for them. You see, you're spending money on Nike sneakers and iPads, but they're not for you. They are for the under-35 set. So, there it is. One day, you're In, the next birth day you're Out.

I've been thinking about age a lot lately, mostly because my birthday is coming up, and it seems like every year after I turned thirty, I've gotten into a weird head space right as July approaches. I get all philosophical and start questioning my life path and more pointedly what I have or haven't done in a year and what's different this year than last. I like when there's a noticeable difference (unless that difference is a larger pant size). And get really funny and introspective when there's not. DD recently noticed that I'm crankier at work. (Mostly, because I've somehow managed to become the office manager.) And suggested that I need to take a vacation. But it's not a vacation that I need really. It's a shift, mentally, towards something else. What it is, I haven't a clue, and I'm not being disingenuous and holding back on you. Most times, I think it's a husband and kids. Afterall, I'm over 35, I should have those by now according to my culture. Sometimes I think it's more money as the over 35 set should be in middle management. Too bad middle management pay hasn't kept up with middle class consumerism. Other times, I think it's the distance between me and my family. But I used to think that I was unhappy because I was too close to those very same people, so, *shrug* who knows? For the most part, I'm just feeling around in the dark here, probably like most of you.

My young colleague came into my office after the interview was over and wanted to assure me that I wasn't "that old." She went on to say that I don't even look my age. I look much younger! (She really is a darling.) However, how do you explain to a Los Angeles-cenric twenty-four-year old, it's not your thirty-six-going-on-thirty-seven looks that you're stressed about (though stress will do a number on them, so I might want to think about that vacation)? No, I worry about relevance, what my life means, whether something wonderful passed me by when I wasn't looking, and if, possibly, my chances for something fulfilling dwindles the closer to forty I get. It's the kinda thing that might get me a blank look and that would really depress me.

Life isn't easy. Not for anyone. And most of us can blame our height, our weight, our sex or sexual orientation, our skin color or hair color, our religion, our financial situation, and -- yes -- even our age, but I don't think anyone is walking around with it easy. I guess, it's recognizing that life is hard in general and trying to make the best of what you do have. In my case, there's nothing stopping me from going anywhere or trying something new. I'm healthy, I'm smart, and according to my young colleague, I'm young looking. Maybe I don't know rappers any more, my pop culture references are ten years out of date, and advertisers are trying to appeal to my non-existent children instead of me, but I'm OK with that. Its actually the nice thing about age that I have embraced completely and totally: I don't care about those things anymore. And its a relief.

I Wonder...

2010-07-15T09:51:00.000-07:00

Since the rise of the comic book movie franchise, people have been clamoring for the one iconic super hero who has never been given a movie of his -- actually, her -- own. In the great comic book canon, Batman, Superman, Spider-man, Hulk, and, yes, Wonder Woman are pretty much the ones we Gen-Xers know and idolize. I could've cared less about the Fantastic Four and X-Men. However, both have had a couple of movies now with X-Men digging further back to do more creation movies (next up? The White Queen, Emma Frost). They are re-starting (again) the Spider-man franchise, bringing Peter Parker back to high school. The Hulk has been made twice, and now they're talking about a third one because obviously they didn't get it right with Ang Lee or Edward Norton. Batman has had two very successful franchises now, with more Nolan to come. And there are whispers about another possible Superman. But no Wonder Woman. The very fact that the Green Hornet and Captain America are getting movies before the lady is just a league of injustice to mankind. (Sorry, couldn't help myself.)

The argument has been that WW has had many, many incarnations. That every time the definition of "She's Hot" changed, the great comic gods scrapped the current lady lasso'er and started again. So, from Amazonian princess to goddess (special like Superman) to Emma Peel'ish super spy (not special like Batman), she was started and re-started again. So, if they were going to do a movie, which generation of Wonder Woman fan would they appeal to? (Which is total b.s. as the Chris Nolan's Batman franchise plays within a defined universe without catering to the fanboys and its a huge, huge hit with everyone.) Last year, there was a great surge of interest in a WW movie, and rumor after rumor was heard around town about the imminent Wonder Woman film. Then, suddenly, a web site appeared to reveal that a movie was underway and someone had been cast. Who was it? Megan Fox! A great uproar went up and Warner Bros. (who owns all live action DC Comic heroes) quickly sent out a release saying that it was a hoax.

In the midst of all this hoopla over comic book movie franchises, DC Comics must have gotten the brilliant idea to re-start the Wonder Woman story all over again, with a new outfit to match. Is it me, or does she look a lot like Megan Fox?

Open Door, Closed Mind

2010-07-09T16:00:00.000-07:00

I am currently hiring for a position within my company. I have a feeling that I might have missed my calling as an HR hiring agent because I kinda like reading resumes and playing god with people's lives. This is probably not surprising to anyone who knows me. However, in this capacity as She Who Holds The Power, I've noticed some things:

First, I'm a snob. Not an Ivy League snob, but an anti-California snob. I'm always looking for the outsiders. I don't want someone who went to USC and majored in film because I don't care what your teacher said on the subject and, quite frankly, I hired you to answer the phone and not give me your two cents on how being a receptionist is just a rung on your way to becoming President of the Universe. I used to think that, too. Now I'm in middle-management hiring the Receptionist. I like people who went to college in Indiana and majored in accounting. Someone like that is going to be grateful to get their foot in the door and will get an agent a coffee without trying to pitch their latest screenplay. At the end of the day, I like underdogs. Underdogs are scrappy and willing to take lumps and get paid crap for it. I also like east coasters. If you were brought up anywhere between Philadelphia and Bangor, you're probably going to get an interview with me. In the three times I've interviewed, I've nominated two girls from Connecticut, both of them ultimately got the job. (That's because Nutmeggers rock! But that might just be a personal bias. Ahem...)

Second, looking at some of these resumes makes me sad. I want to know how someone got their B.A. but no one bothered to tell them HOW to get a job. Academia is all well and good if it actually does what it's supposed to: prepare you to go out into the world and become a productive member of society. Part of being a productive member of society is gaining employment and keeping it. If you don't know that you're supposed to start a cover letter with To Whom It May Concern or Dear Sir or Madam and not Hi! then all is lost in polite civilization. Additionally, your resume should not be a list of jobs and titles, but jobs, titles, dates of employment, and a list of duties. Seriously, some of this is pathetic and not in a condescending, disgusted way, but in a "this poor child is $100,000 in debt to Sallie Mae and she's never going to get a job in corporate America!" way. I think every University should hand out What Color Is Your Parachute with every diploma. Some direction is needed.

Third, I'm aghast at the lackadaisical method some people respond to getting a call back for an interview. Some people really want a job. Other people don't seem all that happy that you did call them back. Have I interviewed for jobs I really didn't care if I got or not? Sure. But I'm always grateful for the opportunity.

Last, I am an awful awful person. I get a resume, read it several times, speculate on the fabulousness of the person who had these experiences and mentally hire them on the written spot only to instantly recoil the minute they enter the conference room. Jeans to an interview. Strapless summer dresses. Badly fitted clothing. Hair in the face. Crippling shyness. Bad posture. And, yes, unattractiveness (which makes me feel like a horrible, horrible person!). I actually will send some of these people through to the next round of interviews just to see if others think that the resume balances it all out. It doesn't. Which means we're all horrible, horrible people.

With that said, if you know an east coaster who went to an out-of-state college looking to break into the business, send me their resume. If they're from Connecticut, dress well, and remotely attractive, they'll probably get the job.

Must List

2010-07-06T16:35:00.000-07:00

I'm reading the current issue of EW right now, and I've reached their "Must List." The "Must List" is the ten things this week that the editors of EW think are important for any pop culture addict to be in the know about. Which gave me the idea for this entry especially since I agreed with most of the Must. So today, I'm writing my Must Watch list.

1) So You Think You Can Dance. This is the only reality show that I have left in my ouerve. I used to watch Project Runway but then it moved to Lifetime, and I can't seem to find it any more. And America's Next Top Model, but then they started casting skanky hos that have back story but no real ability to be a model. OK, so maybe that's what it always was, but when the girls turned stupid and skanky, I was done. But! SYTYCD -- in fan-speak -- is unlike any other reality show as most of its contestants have talent and the judges actually judge and don't just give their opinion leaving it up to 12-year olds to crown their favorite boyfriend of the week. At least, not until the last few episodes. Until then, Nigel treats the contestants like they are in a real chorus line, or at least, in The Chorus Line, and it feels authentic somehow.

2) Huge. It's a new show on ABC Family about an obese girl who is sent to fat camp by her parents. To her, the fat camp is an indictment and rejection by her parents. But the best thing about this show is the fact that they don't tip-toe around the different emotions that go into over-eating, and they are not shy about showing vulnerability, self-hatred, and desperate hope for change. The characters are never judged from an outsiders' point of view and easy fat jokes are never made at the expense of a character. It is a strangely sensitive show that wraps up tidily with teenage angst. And it's probably exactly the right format to address the "Fat Issues" in this country.

3) True Blood. As Freud says, vampires represent a repressed desire for sex. But it doesn't need to be when watching True Blood. Good Lord! The show is girl porn. Mostly because of the jokes. The gratutious nudity, the outlandish storylines, and the so-over-the-top-they-remind-me-of-my-family characterizations make this some of the best popcorn viewing on TV. (That is, until someone violently rapes their vampire ex-girlfriend, twisting her head around in the middle of it while she confesses her love for him. Um, ew.)

4) Pawn Stars. OK, so maybe I lied a bit about SYTYCD as Pawn Stars is definitely a reality TV show, it's more like a cross between Antiques Roadshow and COPS. I don't DVR it like I do SYTYCD, but if you catch it on the History Channel on a random weekend, I swear you'll be mystified. "What's this: a big, tattooed lunk discussing a Revoltionary War Bond printed by silver-smither Paul Revere with a guy who wants to sell it for a Gibson guitar? Where am I?" Vegas, baby. It's crazy.

5) Mad Men. It's not on yet, but I'm counting the days -- 18! -- until it's back on. Last night, AMC did us all a favor by re-airing the pilot -- I forgot that Peggy got birth control pills, no wonder she thought "it" was impossible -- and some of the other more pivotal episodes from that first season. By 11PM last night, I wanted to watch all three seasons all over again. (Except I don't own them on DVD. Now would be the perfect time to remind you that I'm also counting the days -- 16! -- until my birthday. Ahem).

6) Toy Story 3. It's in the movie theaters, so you can't enjoy it from the convenience of your own home, but let me tell you something, Pixar is making the best films. Not the best animation films, but the best film you will see in a long time. TS3 was written by the scribe of Little Miss Sunshine and it's storyline is so poignant that anyone who went from childhood to adulthood and has dealt with nostaligia will probably bawl their eyes out at the end. It seems ridiculous to say that I cried at a cartoon, but they got me last year with Up! And they got me again this year. Loved. It. It's not often that I would be willing to pay for a movie twice, but I would probably do it here.

7) Pinkberry: The Movie 3D. This quirky video was put together by William Morris/Endeavor. I don't know why they did it, but I get the feeling someone was putting their tongue firmly in their cheek and trying to make a point to the higher ups...

8) John Adams. For Fourth of July, I put in my copy of HBO's John Adams mini-series. Yes, I watched all seven episodes over the last three days. And by 5PM yesterday, I was crying all over again. (That last episode is a killer!) But it reminded me of how well it was done and how -- when done right -- a mini-series is a Must Watch event. Netflick it if you haven't seen it. From production values to the acting, it's very well done.

Alright, so I couldn't come up with ten Must Watch things, but a list of eight isn't too bad. At the very least, you can click on that Pinkberry link now and get a three minute laugh.

Illumination

2010-07-03T19:34:00.000-07:00

It's Fourth of July yet again, and I am thinking about the second President of the United States, John Adams. Last year, Hugh asked me why Americans make a big deal out of Independence Day, and I didn't have an answer for him. However, in the meantime, I stumbled along this quote from John to his beloved wife Abigail:

The second day of July, 1776,* will be the most memorable epoch in the history of America. I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated by succeeding generations as the great anniversary festival. It ought to be commemorated as the day of deliverance, by solemn acts of devotion to God Almighty. It ought to be solemnized with pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires, and illuminations, from one end of this continent to the other, from this time forward forever more.

Add in a hamburger, my mother's potato salad, a bottle of light beer, and a pool, and I'm right there with you, Johnny. Happy 4th, everyone!

(*the Declaration of Independence was signed on July 2, 1776. It would take two days to ratify it, making the official birth date of America, July 4, 1776.)

Big Game

2010-06-28T15:24:00.000-07:00

There's a little game that happens in L.A. that one can't help to become a part of. Basically, it's "Spot the Star." You'll be out somewhere, and *bam* suddenly you're face-to-face with Geena Davis. Or you're stuck at a stop light on Hollywood Boulevard and you're smack-dab in the middle of a film premiere, and Jessica Simpson is walking in front of your car. Last week, when I went to the Grease Sing-A-Long at the Arclight in Hollywood, I walked right past Seth Meyers.

I call these gets. Kinda like a safari. But an even bigger Get was this past Saturday at the Orpheum where I went to a screening of the newly restored The Leopard (1963) and sat a few rows back from Helen Mirren. That's Dame Helen Mirren to you and me. Big game, indeed....

Open for Business

2010-06-25T16:42:00.000-07:00

Last Christmas, I came to the realization that I can be married now. I've spent the majority of my life thinking, "I can't get married now! I've got things to do!" And I've tried a good amount of those things, but now I'd like a companion to get through the rest of my life. A good guy who wouldn't mind giving me a baby while he was at it. In the past, I've been told that I've been "closed" to the idea of a husband so I would have to "open" up and let the Universe know that I'm ready. Well, I have opened myself up, and have all but said, "I am now OPEN. Any time you'd like." Which I've done by going out in skirts and make-up and have made eye contact with the male of my species. (This is huge for me.) Unfortunately, the only thing I've heard in response to my Grand Opening is the equivalent of crickets chirping. I wasn't too worried about this until this past Monday when one of our writers - a single 40-something with a marriage wish of her own - came into the office. We were chatting about our dating lives when out of the blue she asked. "Well, what do you want? Do you want to be married?" Then paused. Reader, in that pause, my heart seized in fear. And there was the answer. Deep down in my bruised psyche, I still don't want to be married. In that pause, I was completely repelled.

OK, sure. Maybe it was the confrontational way she posed the question. Maybe it was the fact that I was not on the same mental track as she was when the question was posed, and I froze under pressure. But, I don't think so. I know panic and that was panic. Even though I've opened up my mind to the idea of marriage, I still haven't clasped to my bosom with feverish need. I'm still pretty ambivalent about it. I mean, if someone I love, adore, and admire comes along and asks me to marry him, I'm going to say yes. But, here's a pretty big but - and a small, sad confession - I don't know if that's ever going to really happen. I'm chubby, and I'm now getting old and on the wrong side of 35. I've been single for a very long time and even though I was "closed" there should have been some hint that some guy out there found me attractive enough to at least ask when the hours of operation were. But there hasn't, and so... well. The likelihood seems minimum, if you know what I mean. Which means, it's up to me to go out there and knock on some guy's door to ask if I can buy what he's selling. Except, I'm still not at the point where I want to get married more than anything else on God's green earth, so ...eh.

The writer went on to say, "if you're wishy-washy about [getting married] then you're going to draw guys to you who are wishy-washy about it, and you'll never get married. You have to be serious about it, and then you'll find a guy who wants it, too." To which I say, I'm so wishy-washy about it, Kenmore could brand me.

I don't know what this means. I don't not want to get married. I'm not one of those militant, anti-marriage girls. "It's female imprisonment!" Um, no. I guess, its just that I want to be married to the right person. And I'm pretty sure that's what everyone wants. And maybe that's what being open is really about. Open to going out and meeting people. Open to taking risks. Open to looking and feeling silly knocking on some guy's door. And even open to the idea that maybe I won't have to knock on that door now that mine own is ajar.

Dream Job

2010-06-18T10:23:00.000-07:00

Recently, it was pointed out to me that Oprah's OWN network was offering Average Americans the chance to have their own show. The premise seemed easy enough: Pitch your show idea and yourself, and you could be the next Oprah! This appealed to me, of course, because my ego is the size of Montana. So I looked into a bit further. Upon closer inspection, I realized that what they were really looking for were reality show contestants. You pitch your idea and yourself, and you could be picked as a candidate for the reality show to compete for your own show on the network. This works out nicely for Oprah because not only does it give her content for her new network, but the person who is chosen already an audience who feels invested in his or -- let's face it, more than likely -- her success. Smart, O. Really, really smart.

Let me confess, dear reader. I believe in the one in a million shot. I do. Why? Because if it's a possibility, there's a probability. And if there's a probability, there is a shot that one day my number will come up. Is it a gamble? Yeah, but in this case, it's a silly risk that I'm willing to take. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. And if a little time spent opens up an incredible new opportunity, why not? So, I looked a little closer at the application. The questions ranged from "what college did you attend and what was your major? Why did you choose this school?" to "what's your favorite TV show, celeb, magazine, athlete, movie, and book?" But the question that I really stumbled over, the one that made me go all existential was, "What is your dream job? Why aren't you doing it?" To which I thought, hmmm...

First, let me say that I find it sad that the automatic assumption is that most people aren't doing their dream job. But I guess, if I look at the people around me, about half are not currently employed doing what they would really like to do. (One could suppose, too, that if one was applying to a reality show to host one's own show that one isn't doing their dream job as their dream job is to host one's own show and those kinds of opportunities don't come around all that often.) But it made me ask myself, "What is my dream job?" A long time ago, it used to be actress. But these days, I know that acting is less about inserting yourself into a movie production and more about surrendering yourself into a role that has nothing to do with you. (In fact, truly great actors give up themselves completely and craft a whole new personality. Witness Daniel Day-Lewis in just about anything. People think he's nuts, but that's because he's able to be schizophrenic without being crazy. There's a trick!) At one point, I wanted to be a director who directed her own material. But then I realized that I didn't want to be responsible for the crazies and the egoists on set or the studio budget. No thank you. So then I just wanted to be a screenwriter. That's when I realized that screenwriters are basically treated like crap. You see, most directors are not writers. But they want a writer to write their vision. But then the writer wants to insert their own ideas into the script because they have a different point of view, and usually the script was theirs to begin with so they feel they have a better handle on the material. Then the director treats the writer like the writer is a moron who doesn't understand visuals or even the English language because didn't the director tell the writer exactly what he/she wanted?! And the writer rants that the director doesn't understand story development. And then the actor thinks that the writer and the director don't understand the essence of his/her character and wants a re-write so that he/she can delve further into the emotional motivations of the character's actions. Basically, everyone on the set wants the writer to think for them, and make them sound/look good, but then the writer is not allowed to have any ideas of their own. You never see a writer get up at the Oscars and say, "despite the crappy acting and the non-existent direction, I won this Award anyway!" No. Usually, the very relieved writer is up there licking boots, "Thanks to the director who understood my vision and the actors who made my characters come alive." And that's only if -- a very big if -- someone decides to finance your script at all. Dream job? I would probably bit through my Night Guard.

I have to admit, I've been pretty lucky about trying a few different career paths before settling on the one I'm on now. Magazines felt redundant and simplistic. Cop was soul destroying. Book editor felt important, but mostly frustrating and overwhelming. And now? Well, now I get paid to read which is probably the closest thing I can get to a Dream Job. Does that mean that there isn't something out there right now that might be a better, dreamier, Dream Job in the future? No. In fact, I didn't even know what Development was until I was in it. But right now, I feel pretty lucky to be doing what I'm doing. And while it has it's ups and downs, for the most part, it's pretty dream to be having.

Six Months

2010-06-10T15:27:00.001-07:00

This picture is killing me. She might look like her dad, but that 'tude is all Mom.

It's a Noun

2010-06-07T14:40:00.000-07:00

I'm getting a little worried. Since the beginning of the year, I've been feeling a little, oh gosh, whatsit again, umm, DIM. Yes, that's it. This thing keeps occurring where I can't find the right... um, the right... uh, it's a, you know, it's a noun? Gosh, it's on the tip of my tongue. Forget it. Whatever. It'll come. Anyway, I'll be talking, right? And I'll try to make a joke. Or a valid point. Or even just get out a coherent thought, and, just, *POOF*, it's, like, gone! Its distressing! I can't seem to talk any more. My vocabulary used to be, like, HUGE, and now it consists of, like, sixty words...or LESS! This is very upsetting. I mean, I used to be smart. People thought I was smart because I sounded so smart. It was so nice! And now? Now, I'm an idiot!

I first started to notice the, um, slips, I guess? Around the middle of last year. Right before I turned 36. And I started to make all sorts of jokes about being the litmus test for all those moms out there who thought their kid was the reason they lost their mind. You know, haha? But this isn't funny. I'm freaking out here, people! The other day, I was trying to make a joke with two teenage boys about telling time with a protractor, but I couldn't remember "protractor." And I kept fumbling for it. They tried helping. "Hourglass?" "No. It's a thing you use to measure the stars." "Sextant?" "No. Not the stars. I meant, um, you know, angles? You use it in, like, fourth grade. It's, like, plastic? You know, 90-degrees and stuff." And, by the way, when did I become a ninth grade girl who puts a question mark at the end of sentence?! WHEN!

For a little while there, I was using my hands a lot. They were little bridges. If I just, you know, MIMED it? It would come. I'd snip my two fingers together, and *click* "scissors" would come out. I would finger wave over my hair, and *bam* "highlights." Now? No, now, I can't even mime because the memory path is, just, like, GONE. All of this was brought into full relief just last week when I was in New York. All my smart publishing friends were talking, saying things like, "solipsistic," and "banal," and "anodyne," and I thought, "I used to talk like that, too. What happened?" Seriously, did L.A. suck my brain out? Did age catch up to me? Am I Charlie?

Some days are better than others. I believe last Monday --the infamous protractor joke day -- was one of the worst on the books. Nothing was coming. I'd start to say something, and, just, you know, GONE. Every little, oh good god, it's a noun, every little one wouldn't come. I was at a complete loss of...loss of... *sigh* What is that stupid word.

...

WORD. (christ.)

The Third Option

2010-06-04T10:35:00.000-07:00

I have recently returned back to L.A. from the east coast where I spent quality time -- definitely not quantity time -- with family and friends and business associates from my publishing days. All in all, it was a productive and lovely time. So productive and lovely that it made me debate, once again, a move back "home."

These days, I'm kinda done with the career goal. Time and time again, I've set my sites on some glamour job with the hopes that it will give me money, prestige, and validation. That through hard work, I would feel valuable. Unfortunately, the only thing I've ever gotten from work are these bunched muscle knots in my back, usually directly below my right shoulder blade. (They hurt like the Dickens. Seriously.) And because I'm done with My All Encompassing Drive Towards the Ultimate Career, I've been looking at something I've often overlooked before, mostly because I was given it in spades, my relationships.

I don't want to sound like I just realized that my relationships are important. That's incorrect. I have journals filled -- and I mean that -- with platitudes like, "I'm so lucky to have been blessed with a large loving family, and I love them back!" usually followed by something like, "But I really wish they didn't smother me to death!" And a Sex and the City worthy, "I think my best friends are my soul mates. Who says your soul mate has to be a man?!" On the heels of which I would write, "but I still want to get married. So, if I could just find a guy that I love and who loves me back, that would be the ultimate." However, I think the waning need to become CEO of NBC/Paramount intersecting with the birth of gorgeous little nieces is making me reassess the the primacy of my intimate relationships over my over-driven ego to Make Something of Myself. As with everything, too much of one thing is not good. And I have never been good at moderation (hence my weight. Heh).

I talked about this push-pull desire to go back to the east coast with Edie and my sister. Both, of course, are advocates for the migration back. However, both understand the subtle reasons to just stay put, too. (Honestly, one knows when one is loved when one has such supportive and empathetic people in one's life. I really am blessed. One tick in the Go Back column? Be closer to Edie and my sister again.) Even though, occasionally, I'll try to imagine a different reality -- as in "what if I had just stayed in New York?" -- I've only done it as an alternate universe scenario. I don't wish that I never left New York. In fact, right before I left New York, I was beginning to become anxious that the window to make the Big Move to Los Angeles and Start All Over Again was closing. Because, let's face it, there comes a point in one's life when money and position start to make an impact. In one's 30s and 40s, it's about staying put and trying to grow something. Whether that's getting married and having babies or a career trajectory or buying a fixer-upper house (or all the above), its the time in one's life that one pours the foundation of their golden years. And that's exactly what I feel like I'm missing right now: A foundation.

My newest anxiety? I'm sliding toward 40, and I don't know what I want that foundation to be. Once again, I feel like the window of opportunity is closing and I better make up my mind. I hate this feeling. I feel like it comes over me a lot. But it's probably only every five years. You know, right around the time I pull up stakes and start over again somewhere else. But because I'm in my 30s and my biological clock has started its countdown, I feel like I have to be very careful where I place the next foot. I'm starting to ask myself a very important question: What do I want my life to be about? To be a an utter cliche, what is the meaning of my life? Fortunately, I believe we get to make that decision. Unfortunately, I don't want it just one way. I want it all ways. And I want enough time in which to put it all in so that I don't have to do it all at once. (Hm, I really do have to get a handle on that moderation thing.)

Interestingly, on the ride from JFK into Connecticut, my brother-in-law joked that my sister couldn't seem to stay put for more than a few years. Every couple of years, my sister wants to move. Whether it's to a new town for a new job, or a new apartment because it's bigger, better, closer to something Kate needs to be closer to, they pack and move. My BIL does not understand this. He had one house as a kid then his parents divorced and he had another house. Then he met my sister. He's been on the move ever since. Kate laughed that she couldn't help it. Every few years, she feels stagnate and an overwhelming urge to pull up stakes and move-on overcomes her. So, this roving gypsy lifestyle seems to be in our DNA. For Kate every two years, for me, every five. (I think I got the better end of that deal.) Kate admitted that it wasn't always cheaper or better, but there was always some reason that she could come up with that required the move. Much like how I can always come up with a reason to go out and start a new career.

While I was in New York, partying with my old friends, slipping into old routines, popping up to Connecticut for the weekend to celebrate some family milestone, I saw exactly what my life would be if I did move back. Exactly what it was before I left, and -- to be frank -- that depressed me a little. Because if I did move back, I would want it to be different somehow. I wouldn't want to be back in publishing necessarily. I wouldn't want to have to muscle my way through the City and put back on my armor. I wouldn't want to feel obligated to go into Connecticut whenever a family function necessitated it. These were all reasons to move out west the first time. I felt I needed to get away from my smothering family love, and my soul mate girlfriends to actually go out, be myself and maybe find a guy to create something new with. And while some of that happened -- I definitely feel like I've found my center -- and some hasn't -- seriously, where is that man?! -- I know the move was the right move. But now it's five years later, and my roving gypsy heart is calling for a new adventure while my soul is tired now and just wants to be loved and thinks maybe it's time to cash in my chips and go home. While I long for the Known, I know I will want it only for so long before I loathe again. So I wait with the hope that a third option will come along and break this awful cycle of mine and give me exactly what I need. Something that appeals both to my gypsy heart and tired soul.

Pearls of Wisdom

2010-05-17T10:23:00.000-07:00

I'm going to admit to something that is going to sound bizarre, and I know it's bizarre, and I fully embrace my hypocrisy when I saw that I don't believe in the supernatural and I don't believe in anyone who says they have interactions with ghosts even though I fully believe that my dead relatives visit me in my dreams. There, I've said it. Dead grandparents and uncles visit me in my dreams. I don't expect you to believe me. My therapist certainly doesn't. He thinks that whatever message the dead bring to me in my dreams is a way for my Unconscious to inform my Conscious that it has something important to say. Which might explain some of the messages, but not the messages that I've gotten for other people and that later come true. But let's not dwell on the Twilight Zone experiences, let's, instead, talk about a message that my dead Uncle Larry gave me in a weird dream that included a horse stable and a chimp.

In the dream, my cousin Lauren and I were walking through a modern'ish looking horse stable, which isn't strange since Laur and I took riding lessons as a child. The stable was pristine white and glowing in light. As we reached the end of one hallway, a chimpanzee/human hybrid that was dressed as a stable boy showed up and took me around the bed to a particular horse that I was supposed to see. Lauren in the meantime, was left behind. Around the corner, stood her father (also deceased). He said nothing to me as I pet the horse. But when I turned around, Uncle Larry was there. My uncle -- by the time of this dream -- had been dead only a few months. But he, unlike any of my dead relatives before him, was anxious and had lots he wanted to tell me. Which was interesting because alive, he was kind of a know-it-all and you couldn't tell him anything, so it's not surprising that he had lots to say now that he kinda did know it all, if you know what I mean. What surprised me about this dream, is how sick I felt through the whole thing. How vivid and fully realized. How desperate he was to tell me things. After I awoke from the dream, I felt dizzy and disorientated. I sat up, walked over to the dry-erase board and started to write stuff down. All the key elements. Only then was I able to lie back down and go to sleep. The next morning, disturbed by the Uncle Larry dream, I went back to the dry erase board and found these:

Trust yourself and your decisions.

and

Time is an illusion - there are only pockets of now

There were a few other things, but they were more messages for other people than they were for me, but these were definitely for me. While the first message: Trust yourself and your decisions applied directly to something that was happening a year ago and gave me a sense of calm, it's the second message that I have to be mindful of almost every day of my life. You see, I've always lived in the future. "When I'm forty..." I would say. Or, "when I get married..." But these things were always very far away and not important. In fact, I often felt like I've just gotta get through Now, in order to get to the good stuff Later. As my mother used to say to me, "stop wishing your life away, kid."

The way my uncle explained time was like a pearl necklace. Each bead is a moment or experience of your life, and they're strung together on a line. But each pearl is in and of itself important and should be made the most of. Sooner or later, the string ends and you come back to the beginning. His point was, no moment of time was bad, only what you put into it. So, if you're not putting anything into it except for impatience to get onto the next pearl, because, you know, the next pearl is somehow better, you're wasting it. You're just wasting your life one pearl at a time. Which is really sad if you think of it, and if you knew my uncle at all, you would know why it was imperative that he give me this message, because he wasted his life.

I haven't told many people this story, mainly because it would include me confessing these dead people dreams and how imperative they feel to me. And secondly, whenever I have an epiphany, it feels like a firework in my head, but once I say it aloud to someone else it feels like a cliche. I know this, because when a friend asked us to write inspirational sayings on her FB wall in order to help her get motivated to change her life, I wrote, "Time is an illusion. There are only pockets of now. Make those pockets count" it felt cliche and flimsy. Like I had sold out something that meant something to me.

Maybe that's the point of the dead people dreams. Maybe some of them aren't supposed to be shared. I guess if the message isn't supposed to be given to my mother, or my cousin, or a close friend, then the message really is just for me. Whether it's my Unconscious or my dead Uncle Larry, I should just keep them to myself. (And from now on, I will, too. Ahem...)

Social Coordinator

2010-05-14T10:18:00.000-07:00

Back when I was in high school, I became known as the "social coordinator." I'm not quite sure how it happened or even what I coordinated. All I know is that whenever someone came up with an idea to do something, they would float it by me, and I would go forward to tell everyone what a great idea it was and how to execute it. Back then, I thought I was ingratiating myself with my friends. I was making them happy. In hindsight, I realize that I was the Queen Bee of my clique and I totally didn't exploit that for my own purposes. I thought because I was fat and didn't have a boyfriend, I held no power. Except, you know, I was the captain of the cheerleaders and all my friends always wanted to sit next to me in assembly. My biggest problem: I wanted everyone to like me. Because I didn't find me very likable, I thought no one else did either. (*Sigh* How much time do we waste hating ourselves?)

Social coordinating did not end in high school. It extended past high school into my twenties. A friend of mine was dating a guy from another town, and she had girlfriends and he had boyfriends, so it only made sense to merge the two groups. Somehow, though, once again, the power shifted from the couple who had brought us together to me and -- we'll call him -- Karl. Karl and I never dated, but we became a platonic power couple of sorts. For years, I called him Senator (because he wanted a career in politics) and I was laughingly called the Senator's Wife. (And, quite frankly, I think we could have pulled it off in the way that political power couples do. Oh, DC, I never knew you....) This lasted for about five years until people started marrying and moving away. And then I got a job at the police department and that was the end of my social coordinating responsibilities. Sort of.

At the police department, I went from the girl who coordinated all the social interactions to the girl who was called every weekend to find out where I was going to be. Which party was I going to be at, which bar? At this point, I became a power couple with my co-worker, -- we'll call him -- George. George was a ton of fun, mostly because he had a drinking problem. And I was blonde and twenty-six and single so all the cops could flirt with me and I just thought it was funny because I was still fat and self hating so it wasn't like it was real flirting or anything, right? (*Sigh*) George and I became known as the Bobsey Twins because we were always together. But wherever we were was where the party seemed to be. This lasted for another five years until I moved to New York, at which point I completely rescinded my social status as It Girl. And, quite frankly, I did not miss it. In fact, I found the whole party thing exhausting and I was very happy to be home on a Friday night, and no longer labeled myself a "loser" because of it. I left the social coordinating up to others and showed up at the appointed time and place. Maybe it wasn't as frequent, but that as A-OK with me. And then I moved to L.A.

For the last four years, I have been going with the flow, very much like I did in New York. I met Andi who is a bit of a social coordinator, herself, and have just shown up where and when she tells me. But lately, I've decided I need to get married, and if I'm going to get married, I'm going to have to leave my apartment (Blergh!) And in order to leave my apartment, I must make plans. I mean, I can't just go outside and meet someone, can I? (Don't answer that.) No, no, no. So, I've dusted off my social coordinator role and put it back on. And quickly remembered something: I hate social coordinating! I mean, back in the day when I just hated myself, I would grin and bear through it. Now, though? Well, I kinda like myself better, and social coordinating feels a bit like self-punishing work! What I hate about it is the lack of responsibility on behalf of the other participants. "Do you want to go out to X on Friday or Saturday?" Yes, is the normal answer. "Does Saturday work for everyone? Should we meet at 7 or 8?" As for when and all that, no one cares and they leave it up to me. And while a control freak -- and, yes, I am one to a degree -- would appreciate this ultimate control over everyone else, I have also learned from experience that it allows other people to, well, flake out and blame you. "Oh, I'm sorry I didn't make it; I had something else to do before that and didn't realize that it might conflict. Seven was kinda early anyway." Yes, but you didn't tell me you had something before because if you did, I would have made it 8. Or, you could have said, "How about 8 since I have something to do before that and I might need a little time?" AGH!

The funny thing is I usually find one person who is as equally invested in the experience, whether it was Karl or George or now Andi. And there is a small consolation in that. As for the rest of the posse? I'll be at the Renaissance Faire on Sunday. Come if you like, but I'm not coordinating anything.

Wait a Minute, Mr. Postman

2010-05-13T10:36:00.000-07:00

This morning, I woke up thinking about something very strange: the postman. Probably because DD came into my office yesterday and started to bemoan her lack of competent postal service. It seems her old mailwoman was an old-fashioned, dedicated, through rain, sleet, and hail type of mailman. DD even knew her name. But DD has since moved -- I do not lie -- one block over, and now has sucky mail delivery. I read -- or perhaps I was told -- that when the USPS had to make cut backs a few years ago, one of the things they did was cut back on postal carriers which meant that old mail carriers who got the cushy job of behind-the-counter were pushed back onto the streets, territories were expanded so that mail deliverers had larger tracts to cover, and some routes didn't have a designated mailman at all. Those routes went into rotation. Meaning, John, Gwen, Estelle, and Danny all share a route taking it one week (or month?) at a time. This last scenario sounds like what DD is experiencing as she says there is always someone different delivering the mail. But that also creates the problem that the mailman doesn't know the route. Doesn't know the names. Doesn't know that John and Mary Doe moved two months ago and their Forward Request has lapsed, so s/he is now delivery John and Mary's mail to Jack and June Smith.

What's the big deal, you ask? I pay my bills online, you say. All I get is junk mail anyway, you gripe. Well, it made me think of my Great Uncle Larry. My Great Uncle was a postman his entire life. Right after WWII, he got the job and kept it until retirement. Yeah, so, you ask? My Great Uncle was a bachelor. He owned his own home and when his mother passed away, he lived by himself, quite frugally, and successfully, about twenty minutes from the rest of the family, all the way up until he had a stroke. Now, because my uncle was in prime health, rode his bike everywhere, and lived successfully and without complaint for years, no one in the family ever checked up on him. Didn't have to. He'd just show up on holidays and tell us that everything was peachy keen. So, when he had the stroke, no one was coming for him. The only person that my Great Uncle knew was going to stop by the house was the mailman. My uncle dragged himself to the front door and sat there, waiting for the postal delivery so that he could get some help. He did not recall when he had the stroke. He did not recall how long he had to wait for the mail. All he knew was that if he was going to have any chance of getting help, the postman was it. The mailman arrived and called 911. My uncle lived for another four to five years, but never fully recovered and had to have constant supervision. The doctors said that he would have surely died of starvation or dehydration if he was left alone as his mobility was severely limited.

Back in the police academy they said this scenario was common. In fact, it's usually the postman who calls landlords, the police, and social services as s/he is on the front line of elderly care. They are the person the elderly see every day. So, if Gertrude no longer meets them at the end of the driveway, or Gus's mail is piling up in a box, or -- god forbid -- there is a strange smell coming from Eunice's apartment, the mailman makes a call and emergency services go into effect.

I know I made a point about the MTA bar car several days back, and now I'm clanging the bell on the mailman, but I do feel like something is slipping away. And not just a former way of life, the Mad Men existence, but an idea that we're connected and that we all need each other in order to survive.

Money Matters

2010-05-03T10:37:00.001-07:00

I did something very silly last month. You see, I pay my bills online. But on Friday, I started to get phone calls from my credit card telling me that I didn't my bill last month. So, I went online and looked at my bank statement and saw that my virtual check did clear. I called the hotline number and the lady on the other end told me, yes, the virtual check did clear, but it was short...by $5 from the minimum payment. Because my APR went up and I didn't bother to look at the new bill, I just paid what I always paid, but I wasn't supposed to. So guess what? My APR went up again. So now next month, I get to pay $100 more to cover the new new APR which is about 24%. Would someone like to tell me how the hell the banks keep getting bailed out by the single girls of America?

I recently read an article about kleptocracy. I'm pretty much a moderate with noble ideas about the way the world is supposed to work. But these days, I'm becoming more and more discouraged. Even though I got a raise this year (which many people didn't and won't), even though I have good health insurance that my employer pays for, and even though I'm making my ends meet every month (though my liquid funds are drying rapidly), I want to know if things will ever get easier. When the "rich" and -- more aptly -- greedy are going to be reigned in. I don't believe that the central government should be telling me who I can marry and what to do with my body, but I do think they should tell corporations to keep their hands to themselves and out of my pockets. I'm getting pretty tired of it. And other than voting out every incumbent there is with the hopes that the new representatives will actually try to do something that doesn't give them personal gain, there's really nothing I can do about it. When did America start cannibalising it's citizens?

The New Religion

2010-04-30T11:26:00.001-07:00

This is from In the Woods, which I've finally gotten around to reading (hi, Meg! Thanks for sending). I think it's funny (tragic?), because this novel takes place in Ireland. But I'm glad (frightened?) to know it's a world thing, and not just an American thing. The following is a conversation between two cops.

"I was thinking of the people who make religion out of something completely different. Like money -- actually, that's the nearest thing the government has to an ideology, and I'm not talking about bribes. Nowadays it's not just unfortunate if you have a low-paid job, have you noticed? It's actually irresponsible: you're not a good member of society, you're being very, very naughty not to have a big house and a fancy car."

"But if anyone asks for a raise, they're being very, very naughty to threaten their employer's profit margin, after everything he's done for the economy."

"Exactly. If you're not rich, you're a lesser being who shouldn't have the gall to expect a living wage from the decent people who are."

"The other big religion these days is bodies. All those patronizing ads and news reports about smoking and drinking and fitness. But those reports and stuff aren't just saying things are unhealthy -- they're saying they're morally wrong. Like you're somehow a better person, spiritually, if you have the right body-fat percentage and exercise for an hour a day -- and there's an awful condescending set of ads where smoking isn't just a stupid thing to do, it's literally the devil. People need a moral code, to help them make decisions. All this bio-yogurt virtue and financial self-righteousness are just filling the gap in the market. But the problem is that it's all backwards. It's not that you do the right thing and hope it pays off; the morally right thing is by definition the thing that gives the biggest payoff."

Amen, kids...

Save the Bar Car!

2010-04-22T09:10:00.000-07:00

I heard this morning on NPR that MetroNorth (the train line that connects Grand Central Terminal in New York to the Connecticut pipeline of financiers' homes) did not budget enough money for bar cars. According to the report, there aren't enough seats for the amount of people who board the train so they're going to discontinue the barcar and add another coach. However, riders can still buy beverages and snacks on the platform at GCT and bring them onboard. To which I say: Sigh.

Do you ever get the feeling that we've become a society that lacks culture and refinement? That we have reduced everything down to its barest necessity? Afterall, what is a train for? To transport people. Ergo, why do you need a bar car? Answer: Um, we don't? Get rid of the bar car. Its like we don't understand the human need for an experience. For connection. We have to be on the train to get from point A to point B. Why can't we have something to make that experience -- that forty-five minutes to an hour and a half of our lives, five days a week, twice a day -- nice? Or at the very least, nicer. We've become a society that shuttles people from place to place with no thought to comfort, convenience, or (yes) culture. Take for instance, our airline industry.

While most of you might not know the MTA or, more specifically, MetroNorth, majority of you do know about flying. It's kinda a hell right now, isn't it? Volcano ash aside (I currently have three family members stranded in Ireland), it's not the nicest of experiences to begin with. I have noted in this blog numerous times the mental angst and anguish I've endured with the airline industry, and it only seems to be getting worse. One place is now charging for carry-ons and another wants to charge to use the latrine! And that's only after you get through TSA where you've stripped off most of your clothes and exposed all your toiletries to the world. No secrets here. There was a time when people would have found all this humiliating. Of course, those people were used to a little comfort and luxury, too. Things we've given up in the name of cheap travel and national security.

I used to travel MetroNorth. I went from New Haven, Connecticut to New York, New York and back, every Monday through Friday for four months. And then, I would take it random weekends and every holiday for five years. It's not a pretty train to begin with. It is sparse to say the least and was usually cleaned with some ammonia smelling strigent that always made me slightly sick. (And god help you if you sat near the latrine.) The bar car was basically one car with a bartender who served you nipper sized drinks with cans of Coke or Sprite and a basket of personal sized Lays products. Luxurious? Not exactly. But it was the community that actually sprung up in the bar car. The Wall Streeters and Madison Ave execs on their way home, chatting about something that happened that day. I enjoyed the bar car. It was a loose atmosphere where no one scowled at you if the train lurched and you got thrown into them. While the coach cars were filled with people reading the New York Times or the last Grisham, plugged firmly into their iPods, the bar car actually promoted conversation. Even someone like me, who definitely is not a chit-chatter, enjoyed the jovial atmosphere there than the tense "don't look at me" experience one had anywhere else on the train. On the other hand, I've also been one of those people on the train who didn't get there early enough to get a seat and had to stand for an hour while we were shuttled out of the city like cattle. Inconvenient? Yes. Irritating? Could be.

What's the answer? I don't have a clue. Sometimes I do think the planned community movement has something to it. With more and more people moving all over the country, living in one state while working in another, we are destroying something. Not just the ozone layer either. We're destroying communion, conversation, and community. And by doing that, we're destroying culture. There's nothing to agree upon any longer except to say that none of us are happy, and none of us really know why. We feel disconnected. We feel unheard. We feel impotent. All anyone has to do is read a comment section on any public web site forum and you can see that. The thing about the barcar is that it's there for the people who want to talk and mingle. Exchange ideas. Its there for those extroverts out there who like meeting new people. And even for the introverts who occassionally want to enjoy a glass of wine. Leave a space for socializing. The more we force people into seats and away from each other, the more singular we will become. And that's not very nice at all.

Entitle Me

2010-04-15T10:33:00.000-07:00

It seems I have a serious problem. I am not entitled. According to Merriam-Websters, to be entitled means "to furnish proper grounds for seeking or claiming something." According to my therapist, a healthy psyche includes the belief that as an individual you have certain entitlements. Like, for instance, you are entitled to do the things you want and decline invitations to do things you don't want. Someone needed to inform both my parents and the Catholic Church to these inalienable rights because there seems to be a big ol' hole where those entitlements are supposed to exist.

Somewhere along the line, I was told and came to believe that anything worth having was worth fighting for. Or working hard for. Sometimes both. And if something seemed too good to be true, it probably was. This made me a cynic and highly suspicious. You want to give me this? Why? What do you want in return? To this day, I often won't take something, do something, or accept help based on the ideology that the person offering the boon is going to expect a favor in repayment somewhere down the line from me. And instead of taking the easy road now only to pay for it later, I'll just suffer through it now, thank you very much. "Nah, I'll do it on my own; thanks anyway! [*super cheery, friendly, non-offensive smile*]" This is also probably why I don't like when someone pays for me. I keep the tab running in the back of my head because I'm pretty sure that person is doing the same thing. Maybe s/he doesn't have the precise number ($14.50 for a movie ticket), but I do. Lest at some point s/he doesn't have enough money to cover a dinner bill ($32.50) and off-handedly comments that I owe them from before. For instance, I have one friend who is always amazed that I remember who paid for coffee while another friend will occasionally remind me that s/he doesn't owe me because s/he paid for the last time. Let me be clear, I don't mind be generous, and I would never offer to pay for someone if I secretly believed that they owed me. As my mother once said, "You don't do something for someone with the idea that they will reciprocate. If you can't do it out of the goodness of your own heart, don't do it at all!" (She was really pissed at me for that one.) Also, don't loan someone money without the knowledge that you might never see it again. If you need the money, don't loan it to someone else. I operate from these life lessons (and yes, I've experienced both). So, if I do buy breakfast one morning, I mean it. And I would never say, "you owe me for breakfast." If at some point in the future you pick-up the tab because you remembered, well, we'll probably be besties 4evah.

The battlefield of entitlement, however, is played out in my relationships. Either with family members or my friends. And the more I like you, the worse it becomes. I consistently don't want to let people down, which means I will often sacrifice my own druthers and convenience to suit your schedule...then resent you for it. I am, at heart, a people-pleaser. And I hate it. I don't want to please you. Especially as most people's sense of entitlement is healthy and clear. "I'll get to you when I see to me." I always feel like I've got to get to you first so that you can't come back to me and say, "I asked you about this and you haven't responded." Um, maybe because I didn't want to do it. Or I didn't have time to do it. And why do I have to explain myself to you, anyway? Are you my mother? Am I getting graded on this? What the hell!

To end, I'm not quite sure what to do about this. I mean, how in the world does one develop entitlement? I once read in Malcolm Gladwell's OUTLIERS that it is taught by your parents. If your parents teach you to ask questions of adults and keep asking questions until you understand the concept that is being discussed, you end up feeling secure about yourself and your place in the world. But that didn't happen with me. My mother was not assertive; her parents didn't exactly entitle her either. And I'm 95% certain that my father is a classic narcissist. So? What to do? How to do it? Afterall, entitlement isn't something that's given. It's something that you claim.

Email Me

2010-04-09T12:03:00.001-07:00

I'm an emailer. Probably because I feel I do my best communicating a'la the written word. I feel like I have a firm grasp of language and like the idea of being able to re-read what I've written and hone it so that it transmits the exact thought I mean to convey. The slowness is what I like. What can I say? I'm a control freak. Unfortunately, I'm behind on my emailing these days. Especially if someone has emailed me either through Facebook or my AOL address. While I check both sites daily, just to make sure that I'm updated on the state of my personal world and not missing vital information like Where in the World is my Globe Trotting Friend Andie or Toys R Us's sale on baby apparel, I don't always attend to the more involved emails that come along. The emails that actually require my full attention and deserve a well-thought out response. So, instead of dashing back, "Oh, wow. That's crap; I'm sorry," I don't respond at all. Which, quite frankly, is probably worse.

This morning, I set out to rectify the situation. There was an email from my old boss telling me about her teenage son's first girlfriend (dated February 24th). There were two emails from a NYC friend of mine who had just gone through a terrible ordeal with a guy she thought might be the New Boyfriend, but just ended up being That Jerk (dated from the beginning of March). There were also two emails from an old roommate explaining why she hasn't written back in sometime which included a prolonged illness of a parent (dated from mid-March). There is a Good News email from a friend who had been unemployed, but is no longer. Then there are the emails from my Great Aunt wanting to know about the earthquake that just occurred in California and the Easter greeting from a cousin who I tried calling but never reached. These last two are from this past weekend and for some reason I think I have more time in responding to them because they are "current." Don't ask...

The funny thing is: If you allow an email to go unanswered for long enough, you almost don't have to answer it at all. This makes me feel like a crappy friend, but why bring up That Jerk if the wound is healing and she's put it out of her mind? I did try calling some of these people, but never reached them (which explains the "two" emails). I guess they could have tried calling me back, but most of my friends are email people themselves. The type of people who are busy with their wacky lives and email people at four in the morning. Which makes sense because Like attracts Like, right?

So, if you've emailed me recently and I haven't responded, please know that I feel like a crappy friend and I will get back to you at some point. Either through email or Facebook or -- in the case of the old boss with the teenage son, the friend with a new job, and even the girlfriend who is getting over That Jerk -- in person. Because while I prefer email, I'm not so shabby in face-to-face communication also.

Catching Up to Now

2010-04-08T14:11:00.001-07:00

I am woefully behind on blogging. I am also woefully behind on personal emails. I'm slightly behind on my work, but I'm very behind on my personal reading. I haven't been working out regularly, but way ahead on eating. Sometimes I feel like my life is just a little off track. Like if I got just a little extra sleep or took some time off from work, somehow I would be able to catch up to where I'm supposed to be. Weirdly, of course, Now always seems to come regardless of how far behind I feel I am.

Help

2010-03-27T08:52:00.000-07:00

Help, I need somebody,
Help, not just anybody,
Help, you know I need someone, help.

Don't you love a good Beatles' song? I have a compilation album that Apple Records put out. It has all my favorites. Here Comes the Sun. Let It Be. Paperback Writer. And a few that I just skip over on the iPod, and I'll skip over here, too. But the one that always come back to haunt me is Help!. Love Help!. Probably because it mirrors my own life.

When I was younger, so much younger than today,
I never needed anybody's help in any way.
But now these days are gone, I'm not so self assured,
Now I find I've changed my mind and opened up the doors.

I don't recall what I was like as a small child. I do recall wanting to do things for myself. But that's neither here nor there. Somewhere along the line, I learned to do for myself. That with enough information I could figure out how to get something done without "bothering" anyone. Self-sufficiency (as well as quiet) was prized in my home. I lived in a multi-generational house whose motto seemed to be: Don't bother me, kid. So, I became self sufficient and pretty good at doing for myself. I also became wary and silent, but that's a blog for another day. By my teen years, I knew that I could do anything that I put my mind to. Adults seemed to be completely clueless. And whenever they offered me help, I almost bit their head off. I mean, what were they insinuating? That I couldn't do it myself? That I wasn't smart enough to figure it? Trust me, bub, I've got it all figured out! (I was a very angry teen.) Plus, whenever I had to ask for help, I felt embarrassed. Like I really wasn't smart enough to figure it out. And I felt like I had to guard that secret with everything I had because people might try to exploit me. (Really, I don't know where some of these convictions came from.)

I got through my teen years feeling pretty competent and confident which was a blessing and a curse all rolled into one. I had reinforced certain cynical and self protective ideas that probably shouldn't have been reinforced. However, I had also given myself the mental material I needed to make flying leaps of blind faith because I knew I could handle whatever might happen. So, six of one, half dozen of the other, you know? Help, however, wasn't in the equation. This seemed to be one of the charitable ideas I left behind after I learned how to tie my sneakers. I didn't "need" anyone. I could do it on my own. I would do it on my own. Which is silly really; nobody knows everything. And no one can do everything by him or her self. And as time went by, I suffered for the algebraic formula of Help = Weakness. What I've learned, the very hardest way, is that by shutting everyone out, not allowing them in when you need them the very most, is lonely! And makes life harder! At absolute worst, it can be down right isolating.

Help me if you can, I'm feeling down
And I do appreciate you being round.
Help me, get my feet back on the ground,
Won't you please, please help me?

Accepting help isn't weakness but an acknowledgement that the whole is stronger than a single component. My biggest obstacle now, at the ripe ol' age of thirty-umm... is learning how to ask for help without feeling foolish and incompetent. Without putting a label on it or thinking that it means something that it doesn't. Recently, I've had what can only be called A Divine Test. These "tests", which I believe come to test us to see if we've learned anything about the human experience, come up on occasion, and I usually fail them. This time, however, I might have passed. (With a C, but I'll take it.) You see, my 1998 Jetta finally got to a place where it needed to be retired. And I did what I normally do in a financial crisis. I panicked. Bad. I ran out to Carmax and bought a very cute, very "ME" 2006 red VW Beetle. But. The car had issues. Electrical and mechanical. And after three weeks of waiting for Rome to canonize someone as the patron saint of used cars in order to miraculously heal my Beetle's transmission, I finally gave up and convinced Carmax to take the car back. In the meantime, of course, I received a TON of advice which I promptly started to file in "No" and "Yes" piles for reasons I've stated before. (See, advice) But I knew there was one particular person who could really help. So, I broke down and emailed him.

And now my life has changed in oh so many ways,
My independence seems to vanish in the haze.
But every now and then I feel so insecure,
I know that I just need you like I've never done before.

And guess what? He helped. A lot. He also lectured me. He said that if I contacted him in the beginning, "we" could have avoided the whole Beetle disaster. (Like I said, C.) But I'll say this: At the end of the day, I felt relief at handing over this problem to someone more capable than I. It didn't mean that I was incapable. I just needed a little help.

The Journeyman

2010-03-09T14:31:00.000-08:00

I was just reading a friend's blog in which she mentioned Joseph Campbell's Hero's Journey. I'm a big Joe Campbell fan mostly because I love story and I think its brilliant that he went out there and figured out why story resonates with people. Thanks, Joe! In her post, my friend commented that she likes to think about the Hero's Journey and how it applies to real life. How each of us should be looking for our blissful path. Which reminded me of my favorite poem, The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost. I read it probably back in sixth grade, and it resounded with me even back then. And it continues to resound with me today. Sometimes, in fact, I think that this poem gave me the courage to make some of my more inspired decisions which great art should. In case you're not familiar with it:

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

I've used this road analogy a lot throughout my life, maybe because of this poem. But it's always felt appropriate in trying to explain the way I feel. For instance, I often wonder if I'm on the right "path" in life. I wonder where my Free Will and my Destiny "intersect." Sometimes I feel like I'm stuck "in a jam" and I crave movement. And other times I feel like I'm being angrily swept up "in the flow." I've said in the past that I feel like everyone else is on the superhighway while I'm taking the surface road right next to it, looking for the on ramp.

I don't know if there is a path we're supposed to take. This is where Campbell comes in. He says, No. I don't know if there are experiences we're supposed to have. My religion says, Yes. And according to that religion, all will be revealed at the end of the journey. But until then I'm just supposed to keep moving. Looking for the things that make me blissful. Of course, this is not a particularly easy task nor one I'm particularly fond of. It seems awfully risky to keep moving without GPS or at the very least a Thomas Guide. When I look forward, down the road, if you will, I become a worried mess, terrified of putting a foot wrong. I don't trust very easily, not even myself it seems. I want to believe that I can reserve "the first" road. That I can go back to it. If I need it. But If I've learned one thing in my 30+ years it is is this: No matter where I put that foot, I'm going to be just fine. I just have to trust in the movement.

Some people have assumed that Frost's last line implies that he's happy he didn't take the first road. He's tickled he's taken the second. But I've always felt that he's neither proud nor blissed out. The word sigh gives it away. I think he's content. Satisfied. The journey was good. And it's the journey that matters.

When You Care Enough

2010-02-26T09:25:00.000-08:00

As most of you know, I work for a production company. What most people don't know is that the production company is actually an arm of the marketing department for a highly recognized greeting card company. I mean, it's right there in the name of my company, but most people just think that we do our own thing and have nothing really to do with the greeting cards. Actually, it's the other way around. Our motivation for the movies is to sell greeting cards.

March is coming up, and in March, two of my oldest and very bestest friends celebrate their birthdays. Usually, when I'm out buying my sister's birthday card (in February), I pick up their cards, too. I'm a card person. I like sending them, and I like getting them. I'm one of those people who keeps count, too. How many Christmas cards did I get this year? About ten. How many did I send out? Around fifty. (You people are totally slacking.) Believe it or not, this hurts my feelings. I understand that people are busy. I understand that you got kids, mortgages, husbands, and jobs. I also know that since I'm single, you think I have a load of time on my hands to remember people. Maybe that's true. But I would also counter that I put my relationships with the people I love at the top of my list. How do I show my love? By taking ten minutes to stop by the card section of CVS and looking for a card that expresses the essence of our relationship, or finding something I think is apropos, or that you'll think is funny. In other words, I take ten minutes out of my day to actively think about you and how much you mean to me. It might not be as easy and quick and cheap as a posting a birthday wish to a Facebook wall, but I like the ritual of it. I like thinking about the people I love.

I have a confession to make. I have every birthday card that was ever given to me. I'm not lying. My mother started this weird obsession (it's nice to be the first born) when I was a toddler. By the time I was five, I started saving them myself. The cards seemed just as important as the gifts themselves. It seemed wrong to just throw them out. In fact, my mother used to write what the gift was on the inside of the flap in order to send out thank you notes post-birthday, and I'll tell you this, the gifts are long gone, but the cards are still around. When I was moving to, gosh, maybe my third address or second state, I don't know, I pulled out the box of cards and my mother nearly fell over in shock. "What are you doing with all those?" She asked. "I don't know. You started it," I answered somewhat defensively. "I did?" She replied. "Yes, how do you think I have all the Happy Birthday, 1-year old ones?" I shrugged. I couldn't explain why I thought it was important that I keep the cards or even why I continued to take the cards down every July and put them in the box with the others. (No, I'm not a hoarder. You do not have to call A&E.) "Maybe I should just get rid of them," I conceded. At which point, my mother and I sat down and looked at the cards. And I was right. They were all there. But something happened when we started looking at the cards. Memories started rushing back. The year we went roller skating. The year went to the beach. And then there were cards from people who were long gone.

"This one is from my mother," my mother said, tears forming in her eyes. "It's the year before she died. I almost forgot what her handwriting looked it." My maternal grandmother died in 1982.

There were cards from my great-grandmothers. The three of them who were around when I was born and stayed around for the first ten to twenty years of my life. There were cards from friends I don't see any more, and yearly cards from the friends who have been in my life for twenty-plus years. Like tokens of love. Paper greetings that say, I know you; I chose you.

I love greeting cards, so I guess its not too surprising that I ended up at the Crown. And I love movies, so I guess it's pretty apropos that I ended up at the Crown's production company. But what I love most is the people in my life. And I know that these relationships are important. In fact, the older I become, the more I realize that its my family and friends that really make this journey of life worthwhile. So, every time you receive a birthday card (or a Christmas card), know that I really am sending you my very best. I'm sending you my love.

Prioritize

2010-02-17T14:31:00.000-08:00

My "check engine" light came on last night after a day of sitting in the underground parking garage. I've been waiting for this day for awhile now. You see, my car is a hand-me-down from my parents which was a hand-me-down from my sister which was a used car before it even made it to my family. The things I know the car has been through -- Connecticut winters, one big car accident, the DNA-given lead foot that my mother passed down to both my sister and me -- is enough to make me worry about the longevity of the car let alone the things that might have happened to it before it made it into my family's custody. And, as you may expect for a car with 130,000+ -miles and 13-years of wear and tear, I've been pouring anywhere between $500 - $1,000 into it on a yearly basis. After last year's $1,200 price tag, however, I needed to have a serious talk with my mechanic over the feasibility of keeping the car running. His advice was this: The car is a Jetta, one of the last years that the VWs were manufactured in Germany. Just about everything is replaceable and the car will continue to run in good working order as long as I take care of it. But, there will come a time when the parts get too expensive or when multiple systems will go down at once. The trick, according to him, was to drive it as long as I can, but trade it in before it goes down so I can get maximum worth out of it. Which, I mean, isn't that trick for every driver? Get out while the getting is good?

So, when the check engine light came on, I started to think that maybe I didn't get out while it was good. I mean, it was pretty good last year when I replaced every hose on the transmission. I should have sold then. But nooo. I couldn't see how I could possibly afford a new car then especially as I just spent over a thousand dollars on the current car and another on a stupid root canal. I waited. And possibly waited too long. I began to think that maybe this was going to be it. Finally, that sticky clutch had burned out the transmission or the fuel pump had rotted through. Dollar signs started to roll past my eyes, and I started to pre-panic. And pre-panic has a habit of splattering all over the place.

First, I posted my angst on Facebook because what's Facebook for than to solicit the sympathy of friends and family who can't do anything for you other than to post platitudes and maybe a sad face emoticon? Second, I started to search both Carmax and Cars.com for my next vehicle. I found a 2005 VW Beetle that would do and was in the right price range but made me a little anxious as it was Carmax and they have a habit of putting up and taking down cars with alarming speed. Third, I started to think about how I was going to scrap together an additional $300 a month because not only would I now be responsible for a car payment -- which I don't have now -- I would also have to pay a higher insurance premium because lord knows that a low-tech 1998 Jetta and 2005 Bug with power everything is going to be vastly different in the insurance race. Fourth, I started crying. OK, no, I didn't, but I totally wanted to. Instead, all I could do was come up with a reductionist budget. I was going to have to stop seeing my trainer. I was going to have to cut back on my groceries and keep my shopping strictly to Trader Joes and Vons. I would also have to stop putting money into my ING savings account and quite possibly stop investing in my 401(k). Not to mention that everything I wanted to do (movies and dinners out on the weekends) and everywhere I wanted to go (Sydney in June!) were impossibly out of my reach. So, yeah, I totally wanted to cry because suddenly I felt jailed...again. Why is it that money woes always make me feel like God hates me?

I dropped the car off this morning at the mechanic and within three hours we had a diagnosis: A pressure hose from the engine was rotting and needed to be replaced. With parts and labor: $200. Whew!

But! Now I'm beginning to wonder if I shouldn't make all those cost cutting measures anyway. Afterall, I do need to prepare. Not the 401(k) or ING Savings, but maybe the trainer and the food budget. Maybe keeping dinner and a movie to every other week instead of every week. Oh, not to pay for a new car mind you. No, no, no. I still want to go to Sydney in June. A girl has got to have her priorities...

Disease of the Week

2010-02-10T14:40:00.001-08:00

Every time I go to the doctor's office, I'm diagnosed with something that could be something but might be nothing. But it definitely needs to be "monitored." Today's disease? Glaucoma. Great. Glaucoma on top of a strange liver problem (diagnosed in 1999) that could turn into lupus but might not, "it's hard to tell until you have an actual flair up." Lovely. In 2001, I was told I had Graves' Disease. But maybe not. "You tested positive for the an enzyme that's generated in Graves' Disease, but you're not symptomatic and have no other markers." OKaaay. After I sprained my ankle in 2003, I was told that my wide feet were actually a "misalignment of the bones" and that my bunions would get increasingly worse until it was "too painful to walk." Oh, and, by the way, "you will have arthritis." Are you kidding me?

Who knows what -- if anything -- is going to take me down. But I'll say this: These doctors are killing me.

Neorealism in Life

2010-02-09T11:30:00.000-08:00

Sometimes like is like a Fellini movie. I see things and I wish I could take a picture of it just because it's beautiful or absurd. Last week, during the rains, I saw a black woman walking with a blue beach umbrella with white piping. She wasn't angry or embarrassed by the fact that she was using a beach umbrella. In fact, she seemed quite delighted by it. This morning, on my daily walk, I watched an Orthodox Jewish boy dart out of his family driveway on his BMX bike. He jumped it off the curb, popped a small wheelie, then took off for school, his black jacket flapping behind him, fedora firmly on his head. Or the time Hugh and I went out to Venice beach and he just walked right out onto the sand in his black wingtips to watch a drum circle that included bongos and a full drum kit and a didgeridoo. Things are the kinds of things that make me laugh; the moments that make life surprising.

Victoria

2010-02-02T12:13:00.001-08:00

My dog died. Yes, I have a dog. Or had a dog. I've been saying, "I have a dog" for such a long time now that I kinda can't stop saying it. Especially since I only had a dog in name only. The story is this:

I had just got out of a relationship with a boyfriend I shouldn't have had. One of those guys that you know isn't any good for you, but is too fun or hot or whatever-weird-obsession-you-have to give up. By the time I was ready to end it, it had been years and consider he was my first, well, everything, I kinda didn't know how to end it. I kept taking his calls, or answering the door when he banged on it, and I knew, I just knew, that I needed something to take my mind off of him and the crazy situation I seemed to be in. And what better diversion can a gal ask for than a puppy?! So, I asked my roommate (let's call her) Carrie, "Can I have a dog?"

Carrie and I have been friends since first grade and have been together ever since. We moved in together after she bought a house in the town where I worked, and it was the perfect situation for a dog. I was working odd hours at the police department, and she was working nine to five, Monday through Friday at the hospital. There was probably two hours a day when the dog would be alone. And since Carrie already had a dog she rescued from the pound, I was pretty sure she'd be A-OK with a new puppy. And she was. So, I started to look for the perfect post-bad-boyfriend, new love of life dog.

At first, I was looking at beagles. Then Jack Russell Terriers. However, like all great love affairs, you never know what you're looking for until you find it. In this case her. She was an Alaskan Malamute. Kinda like a Siberian Husky but bigger. However, as a puppy, she looked just like a little stuffed animal and I wuved her berry much. (Yes, I talked baby-talk to her; why do you ask?) We saw her in a pet shop window -- do NOT lecture me about puppy mills. I know, alright?! -- and we just had to have. She was perfect. Shy, malleable. And just cuter than cute! Which, you know, is the most important thing about a new puppy. Ahem. Carrie literally plopped down $800 in cash and we walked out the door with her on a brand new pink leash. We named her Victoria because we were supposed to go to Victoria's Secret for a bachelorette party gift but never made it over there. Instead, we went straight home with our new child. I mean, puppy.

Sandie, Carrie's dog, was not a happy camper. She wanted to know who this little interloper was. But Victoria -- or Vicky, or Vic, or V, or whatever derivative you can get out of Victoria -- was interested in being queen of the house and Sandie quickly got over the newcomer. Victoria was everything I needed. I went to puppy kindergarten with her (she kicked ass!). I practiced her new tricks in the front lawn with her. I walked her. I picked her up and scratched her belly every night in front of the TV. I emptied all my love into that girl and she was an obliging receptacle. Sigh. She was perfect.

For five years, we had it made. But then I decided I didn't want to be a cop any more and got a job in New York City. Unfortunately, I got a place that didn't take dogs. At the same time, Victoria was a country dog. She was very shy and did not like meeting new people. When faced with strangers -- especially male strangers -- she pee then hide behind my legs. FUN! So, Carrie kept her in Connecticut, and I moved off to the city. But whenever I came back, it was like I never left. Vicky still loved me. Four years later, Carrie moved to Long Island, and I started to visit her out there. Despite the change of location, however, it still felt like old times. Carrie, me, and our girls... Though by this time Carrie started to call me an absentee parent who abandoned her daughter. (Thanks, Carrie.) A year after that, I moved to L.A., and a year after that, Carrie married a man and moved to Maryland. And then she moved to Germany. I was pretty sure, I would never see Victoria again. But then I went for a visit in January 2009.

Carrie's husband picked me up from the airport, and while I was thrilled to see Carrie and her new son, I was equally impatient to see Victoria. It had been years. And the moment I walked in the door, Vic -- at 14 -- was thrilled to see me, too. And like when I visited in Long Island, it felt home. Carrie might have moved on, gotten married, had a baby, but we were still Us. We still had our little girl. The entire time I was in Germany, Vic slept with me, followed me around, watched TV, and let me know when she needed to use the potty. It felt natural and normal and lovely. I took pictures of her and cried into her coat (for the third time after Connecticut and New York) when I left. I knew it was only a matter of time. Carrie and I both talked about it often. Victoria had lived past the average age of a Malamute. She had diabetes, arthritis, and cataracts. But we both put it off. Soon...but not yet.

Carrie sent me an email two weeks ago to let me know that Victoria fell down the stairs on Christmas night. They had to put her down. She had to put off writing the email as she just couldn't get through it. And I put off reading the email until last week as I couldn't face it. Even though I hadn't lived with them for ten years, I still couldn't digest that my dog was dead. (In a way, I still can't as I start crying every time I say or type it.) However, denial only works so long, and finally I read the whole thing and responded to Carrie. Then I called my mother (who did her best to be sympathetic) and told my therapist. I kinda don't know what to do with this knowledge. Grieving is such an odd thing. There is just no right way to do it. I keep telling myself, "You didn't live with them for TEN YEARS." But I knew where she was that entire time, and I still had visitation, and Carrie kept me in the loop about all things Victoria. She was still a part of my life, tangent as it was. And...and, she was my girl. And I loved her. And now I miss her. Grief is such a horrible thing.

Daredevil Dating

2010-01-19T15:32:00.000-08:00

So, I closed down my eSmarmony account today. I have until midnight tonight to make a Hail Mary pass. But I think I'll keep to my ground game. Keep my head down and run out the timer. Let me be honest: I came into this venture with my eyes wide open and didn't expect much. Which is good, as I didn't get much. (E-Dating: keeping expectations low and hope thwarted since the dawn of the Internet!) Now in the past, I would be ambivalent at this point. "Maybe I should stick it out," I would think. "Nobody has ever gained anything by quitting," I'd reason. "What if Prince Charming joins eSmarmony today and I closed out my account because I'm tired of paying $29.99 to feel disappointed, dispirited, and a freak?!" I would panic. But this time? I have to admit, I feel relieved and slightly exhilarated that it's over. Also? I feel more hopeful and assured that I will meet someone in the real world...which I admit is completely silly and ridiculous as I've been offline most of my life and haven't been any more successful with that approach. But whatever. The psyche feels what it feels, right?

I have a confession, dear reader: I am a Rules girl. Not the book, The Rules. Yuck. No. But I do believe in playing by the rules of the all powerful They. As in: "They say that if you don't get a Bachelors, you will make $20,000 less a year!" And, "They say that if you love something, you should let it go...blahblahblah." I like the idea that there is a clear cut path to something. However, I fully acknowledge that there isn't a neat and orderly progression to anything. I mean, I've watched completely undeserving people succeed time and time again with nothing but a line of BS and a bag of bravado. And what am I if not the exception to the Rule? (Your father was a what? You never finished that? You were a cop?!) Luckily, however, I'm also adaptable. In fact, I'm pretty rational about a lot of things. Appropriately enough, eSmarmony's little 20+ dimensional compatibility test actually agreed with this assessment of my temperament. I scored "both" on a lot of things like emotional stability and conscientiousness. I'm even, go-with-the-flow, and able to acclimate. The problem with this kind of character is that I'm constantly at war with the two sides of my psyche. One side of me likes calm, order, and meticulous adherence to my beloved Rules. If you put all the pieces together according to the diagram you will get exactly what you paid for. Thank you. The other side of me likes romance, hope, and being a bit of a daredevil. Throw it up in the air and see what happens! Wee! eSmarmony appealed to the former, while cutting loose and running for the hills appeals to the latter. While I hoped for a little romance and hope within the confines of the sanitary e-site, I kinda knew I wasn't going to get it. After all, I had tried it before with the same dismal results: The kind of guys that I wouldn't allow to speak to me if we happened upon one another in a bar. But still, I felt like I had to try just to be able to say that, yes, I tried it...again. Now back off.

As a single girl in the waning years of her thirties, I get a lot of advice on how to date and who to date. I have one friend who literally prays for me daily. She's Jewish. She's also single. In return, I'm supposed to pray for her. We're trying to cover two major religions on this one. She's offering me prayers of a Chosen Person to the One True God while I've got Jesus on the line. Andie, on the other hand, is choosing visualization. "Think it, see it, and it will be." She's also declaring: "We will be pregnant by Christmas 2010!" That last one gave me nightmares for a week. In the meantime, the very married DD is playing Monday morning quarterback by asking me about Hugh post every weekend. Her: Did you go out with Hugh this weekend? Me: Um, yes. Her: What did you do? Me: (cringing) Uh, a movie and dinner? Her: Um-hm. Me: (silence.) So, why not Hugh? Well, because the two of us look at each other and think, "Yeeeaaah...no." I mean, I could sleep with him, I guess, but I have this weird feeling it would feel like sex with my third cousin. Perfectly legal, but not exactly right. (One could argue that I need to rethink this position, but as it would also require Hugh to rethink his position, it is a moot point, and we shall move on...). The odd thing is that most of the people I'm talking to now are not talking about e-dating. It's not the e-dating stigma (it's only for the desperate), but the fact that everyone has been desperate enough by this age to actually try it and failed to find The One. But, my friends are nothing but resilient. And romantic. And hopeful. Which is why we're friends.

So now what? I'm not sure. I'm going to try prayer and visualization and maybe not hang out with Hugh alone so much. But I'm also going to try to keep my eyes up off of the sidewalk and try to go to places where I might bump into people. Real, live people. Daring, I know.

Flux

2010-01-10T08:28:00.000-08:00

I'm in flux right now. I've been working toward it for quite sometime. Therapy for three years, working out, and staying put have all attributed to a change in my mental and even physical state. Mostly for the best, but sometimes...well, sometimes I'm not doing too well. The problem with being in flux is that you're not stable mentally or emotionally. In those moments, I want to post some comment on FB that reveals my inner turmoil, but the problem with FB is that it's a Social Networking Site and no one really wants to hear about your low spirits. Kinda like when you ask someone, "How are you?" to be be polite and they really answer you back. "Not well; my mom has cancer." So, I figured I'd blog a bit about it as you're a captured audience who willfully comes here to check in on me.

Today, I woke up a little depressed. Friday night, I went out with Andie to watch a romantic comedy which usually puts me into high spirits. Instead, I watched the whole movie and swallowed lumps in my throat. This weird feeling of knowing came over me. This absolute knowledge that I'm going to be alone for the rest of my life. I've had this feeling before, and it's never good. It makes me forgetful and foggy. I start feeling like a heavy rock. So, Saturday, I decided that I was going to do a little Retail Therapy and headed out to Macy's with my Christmas gift cards. Get myself something pretty and feminine. Something that made me feel like a pretty girl and a lady. As luck would have it, a guy I've been emailing through an e-dating site texted me. We went back and forth for two hours and it became glaringly obvious that he didn't remember anything we had exchanged in emails before. He repeated all the same questions: What do you do? Where are you from? Which neighborhood do you live in in L.A.? Then he revealed he has two teenage daughters. When we started texting I was in the lingerie aisle I was looking at frilly, lacy pieces of fluff. By the end of it, I had bought conservative, "foundation" wear that was well constructed, made to last, and on sale, and an electric shaver to help with my unwanted body hair. I came home, ate some soup, and took a little nap. Then I went out with Hugh for our usual weekend dinner and a movie hoping that it would shake me out of my head. A Guy Ritchie auctioneer cannot be taken seriously and neither can Hugh. So, I went with a little bit of hope. This was a mistake. Sometimes Hugh's light banter and teasing makes me feel better. Sometimes it doesn't. Last night, it didn't. Instead, I felt the rut that my life has worn into and wanted something more. I wanted OUT...and to throw a very heavy spoon at Hugh's head as he had now come to represent all mankind to me.

Have you ever felt like there's something just on the other side? That if you can just get through this moment, something will happen? Something you've waited for? Something you've earned? I keep trying to believe that the next thing that arrives will be positive. But sometimes, life needs to remind you of how good you've got it by taking something away. While I want to run away from this doomsday scenario and "manifest my own destiny," I'm mentally standing still. Mainly, because I am in flux. I am changing. And change is coming. Wherever it spits me out, I have to believe its going to be in a better place. Hopefully at the other end of an aisle.

The Big Blue Bin

2010-01-07T09:56:00.000-08:00

It is Thursday already, and I realized that if I didn't write something in the next 72 hours, I would have already broken First Resolution, 2010. So I hurried over here to post a blog. The problem with a resolution like this is that one has to come up with something. Something that means something. Something that says something. Something that communicates something. Of course, what all those somethings are is completely relative to the moment. So what do I want to say and communicate in this moment? Damned if I know. So I figure, I would share a something instead. A recent memory that contains lots of other, older memories -- for me and my sisters -- and are all kept in a big blue bin.

The big blue bin resides, most appropriately, in my old bedroom at my parents' house in Connecticut. As most of you know, I've led a somewhat transient existence, and my old bedroom has become the receptacle of all these sojourns. (My stepfather started to call the house "a storage unit" as all my sisters have left numerous mementos there over the years.) There's the box that contains my high school diploma and decorated mortarboard as well as my diploma and my basketball uniform from St. Joseph grammar school. My pom-pons (correct spelling!) from all six years of cheerleading. Six boxes of books which I've blogged about before (see library). My futon, my rocking chair, not to mention some of my police gear that I should have handed in when I left the force, but didn't. (Ahem.) There's my collage board from New York and my hope chest filled with my linens from Manchester. There used to be a wicker footlocker that I bought from Pier One sometime around my move to Newington, but my sister recently asked for it and took it over the holiday break. The general rule is -- aside from my sister's wedding gifts that have taken up residence in her old bedroom until she buys her house -- anything that has been left in the house is up for grabs. Even what's in the big blue bin.

The big blue bin is a Rubbermaid storage box that my mother bought for me one birthday when I was trying to condense all my property into items I wanted to keep "for the future" and those that should and inevitably would make their way to the Salvation Army. As human beings, we tend to be pack rats; we tend to store things away for someday, only to realize that someday might not come. Every time I go home, I try to get a handle on this stuff. And every time I succeed and fail in equal parts. One year, the year I was leaving for California, I went through all my clothes and put my cast offs into a big blue bin to be deposited at the Salvation Army. However, my mother said that she'd like to go through it before I did so, as I was getting rid of a lot of sweaters (that I erroneously thought I wouldn't need in sunny SoCal -- haha). She said that she would drop the big blue bin off at the Salvation Army herself. I love my mother, but she's a bit forgetful, and one year later, I returned back to Connecticut and my old bedroom, and the big blue bin was still there...with more clothes in it. The situation was this:

After I left, my mother did some laundry and found items that were foreign to her. Thinking that they were mine, she put them into my old bedroom. On top of the big blue bin. But I'm not the only person who stays at my parents' house or does her laundry there. My sister Kate and Julie do --and, at that time, did -- also. (And possibly Beth and Sara. Who really knows?) And since all us girls are relatively the same size, fluctuating up and down by a size or two, my mother never really knows whose is whose. So, the big blue bin became the place where spare clothes ended up. And whenever someone was missing something and asked about it, she would be directed to the big blue bin. By the time I arrived that next Christmas, the big blue bin was filled with bras, underwear, a couple pairs of shoes, some old t-shirts, sweatpants, and my old sweaters. Which! Ended up coming in handy as I was back in Connecticut in December and needed warmer outer-wear. Brilliant! The big blue bin was here to stay. Cut to Christmas 2009.

My sister, Kate, and I stay at my parents' house on Christmas Eve. Since 2005, Kate's husband has also stayed, and this year, their newborn daughter was in residence, too. (Even though I was kicked out of my bedroom and had to take the little room -- the one packed with Kate's wedding gifts -- I didn't mind. There's something about waking up Christmas morning with a baby in the house. Especially when its the baby's first Christmas.) Christmas Eve, Kate asked me if there were any of my old pants in the big blue bin as she was still working off her pregnancy weight. Having completely forgotten about the big blue bin (as I am now becoming my mother with every dying brain cell), I told her I didn't know, but it would be worth a look. She did, and there wasn't, but I was glad to be reminded of the big blue bin as I didn't bring any workout wear past a couple of sports bras and my running sneakers. Two days later, when I was ready to resume my normally scheduled cardio program, I popped off the top of the big blue bin hoping for some ratty old t-shirts and something to throw over it like a misshapen cotton sweater or an old college sweatshirt, or even a baja poncho from someone's spring break trip to Cancun.

On top there were some sweaters. There's the Calvin Klein one with the American flag on the front (bought in NYC at Filene's Basement; I don't know what I was thinking). There's the Irish knit cardigan (bought at Marshalls in Manchester when I needed something for a St. Patrick's day ensemble). There were some old bras (which might have been mine, but then again might not). The Nike running sneakers, size 9 (something to remember for next year; I hate packing shoes). A couple pairs of Victoria Secrets pjs (Christmas gift from when my mother was still buying us Christmas pajamas). There was my sister's 1996 parks and rec t-shirt (thank you, Kate), and... OH MY GOD! MY POLICE ACADEMY HOODIE! (Squealing in abundant joy!) I pulled on my yoga pants, the parks and rec t-shirt, and the hoodie, scrapped my hair into a ponytail and bounded down the stairs feeling like a sixteen-year old. I entered the kitchen and bellowed to my mother, "Mom, LOOK! It's my police academy sweatshirt!" My mother was not as happy as I was, but she was happy enough in that fake mom-way to appease me.

Wearing the sweatshirt made me feel young. I felt tough and strong. "Don't screw with me," the sweatshirt said, "I was a cop!" It reminded me of the 25-year old I used to be. The one that loved working at the PD. The one that didn't think much past the moment she was living in and the only plans she made was for drinks that night. The one that felt invincible. The one who didn't have a care in the world because the future was still far away. I wore it for four days and enjoyed not feeling like California Me, but Manchester Me. It was a nice reprieve.

Kate was driving me back to JFK for my flight back to Los Angeles. By the time I was preparing to leave Connecticut, I was more than ready to go. The morning I left my parents' house, I was busy breaking down my old bedroom for whoever stayed over next, re-packing my clothes, and double checking that I had my boarding pass. I threw my used linens down the basement stairs where all the dirty laundry from the occupants of the house lands. And I threw the sweatshirt down there also, knowing that Mom will clean it...and put it back into the big blue bin.

A New Year

2010-01-02T09:29:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year, dear reader! I noticed today that I posted only forty times in 2009 as opposed to ninety-three times in 2008. I would say that's a 53% reduction in output, but I was never good at math and can't figure out that percentile (and I'm pretty sure just subtracting the smaller number from the bigger one is the wrong algorithm). But that was a poor showing in any event and needs to be remedied. I need to improve that number. Or...make a resolution to do better. So, in honor of the grand tradition of New Year Resolutions, let me declare myself now!

First Resolution, 2010: More blog posts! I know, you're excited. I can feel your anticipation pulsing over the wi-fi and into my fingers. Thank you, thank you, thank you! Your validation, love, and adoration means everything to me (as I don't get nearly enough of it in my day-to-day life so I must seek it out from anonymous people on the Web). My goal is to write once a week which would be, at the very least, fifty-two posts. (Unless I'm confusing the number of weeks in a year with the number of cards in a deck, which does happen to me sometimes. I've luckily stopped confusing the number of cards in a deck with the number of states in my country. *Ahem.*) And as fortune would have it, my first resolution ties very nicely into my second resolution which is:

Second Resolution, 2010: Write more! As my unpaid therapist/life coach, Andie, put it to me recently, "I hate to break it to you, you're going to have to write if you want to be a writer." You see, I'm a perfectionist who stupidly thought that if she got involved in the editing process she would perfect her writing process. This did not happen. What did happen, however, was she became really good at critiquing her own writing...while she was writing. This is not good. (1) Because writers don't -- nor should they -- have an editor standing over their shoulders while they create. It kills the buzz, man. "Is that the word you're going to use?" "I don't think that action makes sense relative to the character you've developed." "What are you trying to achieve in this scene?" BAH! Shut up! (2) Because editors see all grades of writing quality. Sometimes this is good. As when a ridiculously redundant, un-paced, flat piece of writing comes through...and it gets bought. "Criminy, if that can get sold...." the writer thinks. But sometimes, it can be bad. Like when a manuscript comes in and it sweeps the editor into a another realm and can basically be published with just a light copyedit. The writer then thinks that she's a charlatan that has no business writing -- ever! -- and debates whether she should call the Library of Congress and get back the few books she did publish because -- really -- her books should not be stored anywhere near this stunning paragon of literature. (3) Because her ego and self worth are tied up in her writing and what if another editor (especially one that is a friend and former work colleague) gets his/her hands on it and knows the truth. "She's an idiot! But she speaks so well!" As my paid therapist tells me, "You know that's not true. You're too modest." Um, no, I'm just a really good fraud who can talk a good game. "That's not true either." Yeah? Prove it. Well, there's only one way to know for sure, right? And that's for me to write something and submit it. (Now go back and read one through three again. It's a loop, I tell ya.) Which brings me to:

Third Resolution, 2010: Believe in my self. This is hooky and completely new age-y in that Oprah Winfrey/bourgeoisie/The Secret-way. And I sigh in heavy defeat just writing it. But if I'm to be forthright, self doubt has crippled me in numerous ways from the time I was a small girl. (Honestly? I secretly have always believed that people don't like me. That they think I'm loud, crass, and obnoxious. I know, right?! Who doesn't love me? And yet...) But this "modesty" has stopped me from a lot of things. Like writing that book. Or finishing that screenplay. Or even going for that guy who is really cute, charming, smart, but maybe five years younger than me or too cute, charming or smart to want to be with loud, crass, obnoxious me. So, no more of that! I banish you, self doubt, to 2009 where you may wither and die along with my 401K and MySpace.

Fourth Resolution, 2010: Re-learn percentiles. As I know from past resolutions one or two of them will never occur, and as I would like one through three to happen, I figure if I throw in one that I should want, but am fairly certain I won't accomplish, then I'm padding the chances that the others will. However, if you come back to this blog in 2011, and I'm posting pie charts and using advance calculus equations to illustrate my writing productivity, you can safely assume that I did not finish the screenplay.

So. To 2010. And resolution for all of us.

Cheers!

Twitterings

2009-12-17T16:04:00.000-08:00

Things I would Twitter if I were tweeting:

*I love screener season! I have a hook-up who has a hook-up and I'm getting hooked-up! This weekend, "It's Complicated" and "The Lovely Bones." Love. It.

*I just ate two (Okay, three) Italian cookies from an authentic Italian bakery in Rhode Island overnighted to us from an Italian-American short story writer who miraculously got his unpublished short story optioned by us. (Okay, it was four.)

*I seem to be a match to every frakking guy on the eHarmony web site which I find funny considering I have such a hard time dating in the real world. I'm compatible to all, attractive to none. Yeah, I don't feel too badly about that...

*My cousin in Colorado and the one in Japan flew in to Connecticut today for the holiday. (I fly in next Wednesday.) And we will all be at our grandmother's house on Christmas. All we need is a piano and Judy Garland singing "I'll be Home for Christmas" and we can be a reality TV special.

*I've been asked to be a godmother again. And again. This year it's my niece Abby. Next year it will be my niece Cara. Regardless that God has ignored my pleas to meet the man who will father my own progeny, I'm now responsible for the souls of four small children. There's an irony in this that I haven't missed.

*We optioned the Jamie Lee Curtis piece. Betty White is attached. Is it bizarre that I'm more excited to meet Betty White than Jamie Lee?

*I just saw James Marsden at Lala's Argentine Grill. He was sitting by himself, obviously waiting for someone. A gorgeous man like that should never be alone. That's just a crying shame.

*Regardless that I'm contemptuous of the "Avatar" marketing scheme and the over-the-top reviews, not to mention worried about the impact a $400-million movie is going to make on the film industry or ticket prices if this thing succeeds in becoming the next level of movie-making, I'm going to see it anyway. And in 3-D. Probably at the IMAX. I have no morals.

*I saw Brittany Snow at CVS on Monday. She walks funny. Maybe it was just the heels.

*I keep thinking I'm done Christmas shopping then I remember someone I forgot. I need to start making enemies...

The Scared Skeptic

2009-12-14T12:03:00.000-08:00

Elizabeth Gilbert, author of EAT, PRAY, LOVE (Oprah sanctioned and soon to be a movie starring Julia Roberts) has a new book due out called COMMITTED: A Skeptic Makes Peace with Marriage. As a bonafide Single, this kind of irritated me, and I'll tell you why: Because Gilbert was married. She is a divorcee. In fact, a few people who have read EAT, PRAY, LOVE have voiced dismay at how cavalierly she threw off her marriage at the opening of that book and went on a journey of self-discovery that ended with her in the arms of another man (portrayed by Javier Bardem in the film). Not to give anything away -- that isn't in any book review -- COMMITTED is about how Gilbert decides to give marriage another go despite the fact that she equated marriage to a jail term. In EPL, Gilbert sermonized that religion got a little overly definitive about the terms of marriage. This does not sound skeptical to me. This sounds like disillusionment, like a person who didn't like the definition of marriage. Who, perhaps, believes in the power of Romantic Love, but found it difficult to sustain in a man-made institution. And despite that she might still believe in Romantic Love and continues to disagree with the Western definition of marriage, she got married again anyway. (Actually, she does it to secure a visa for her Brazilian lover, which sounds a lot more pragmatic and ethically questionable, but I digress). My point here is that the subtitle is provocative, but misleading. She doesn't make peace with the establishment of marriage as much as she makes a practical decision to circumvent the law, as the only way to continue conjugal visits with her preferred sexual partner was to marry him. COMMITTED is the exploration of different kinds of marriage from different cultures around the world. In other words, she's rationalizing and on the look out for the definition that best suits her predicament. (Which, if you think about it, if you opened up the definition of marriage, more people might go down the aisle.)

Right before Thanksgiving, I was offered a freelance writing assignment to write a book for the Valentine's Day market. As I've written three books for that hallowed holiday, the idea left me cold and annoyed. I don't think I've ever celebrated Valentine's Day and yet my romantic nature makes me a go-to gal for Valentine's drivel. But, whatever. I passed on the project and volunteered the name of another writer friend of mine who is currently between gigs and was looking to break into the gift book market. The publisher contacted this friend, and she IMed me this morning that she took it. As this friend has recently broken up with a boyfriend, I didn't know if she was in the right frame of mind for the assignment, but she told me that she's looking forward with hope. To which I say, "good for you," with skepticism in my heart. Because, dear reader, I am a skeptic against marriage.

Quite frankly, I think my generation -- the children of the so-called Me Generation -- are the real skeptics here. Mostly because our bohemian progenitors totally bought into the ideology that "if it's good for me, it's good for the kid." Which I will admit is probably correct if, say, Daddy beats Mommy or Mommy cooks meth in the spaghetti pot. But I think there's a lot of people who get married because they believe in Disney's version of love and then get jaded and angry that marriage is a ton of work and requires a level of commitment that sometimes supersedes your own personal needs. They look to marriage to fill that void inside themselves and if their partner is not up to filling the void then it's OK to look outside the marriage to figure it out. Whether that's another lover or a sojourn to Italy, India, and Bali, then you know, it's all good because it's good for me. To which I say, "No." Marriage comes with a definition and, yes, it comes from the church, and if you're not ready for that, don't do it.

As far as this Singleton can tell, marriage is a lot of work. It requires subverting your anger, frustration, and annoyance. It is constant compromise. It's a lot of bickering, negotiating, managing, and re-negotiating. It's finding space for yourself while trying to stay present enough so that your partner doesn't feel ignored. Its trying to find a perfect balance between needs and wants. Its about getting up in the morning and going through the routine no matter how boring it gets, hoping for those little moments of grace. I mean, my god, who wants to sign up for that?

The hope is, of course, that you will have a lifetime companion. Someone to witness your life with you. Someone you can go to the Great Wall of China with and say, "Look at that." Or ask, "Where was that little restaurant with the great gyros?" Life is lonely. A spouse makes it less lonely. And I get that. In fact, I want that. But my fear is that I won't be able to sustain it. I'm a freak, people! And because I fully acknowledge that I'm a whack-job, I used to think, for the longest time, that I had to find the perfect man to marry. Because only the perfect man would be able to put up with my quirks and foibles. And I mean that. Who is the perfect man? Well, I don't know, I haven't met him, but I certainly knew exactly what he was like. He had to be funny, of course, but not crude or raunchy or cruel. I prefer witty, word puns, and a certain dryness to humor. He had to be relaxed and comfortable in his own skin and place in the world. My need to control everything would be amusing to him, but at the same time a non-issue as he didn't care for the details himself. He couldn't have an ego or be a blowhard, but was still willing to defend me and my honor if need arose. He'd be ambitious, but not obsessed. A healthy sense of balance between work and family. He'd make money, but be completely mindless about it. My happiness was imperative to him. Generous, without a stingy bone in his body, yet not a spendthrift. He liked to travel, but also enjoyed an occasional "stay-cation." Loyal, ethical, committed, with a certain nobleness to his character. Smart and clever. A little absent-minded about the daily stuff, but remembered important occasions like my birthday and the place where we first kissed. I preferred he be from New England...and to look like Matt Damon. In fact, Matt Damon would do nicely as long as he fit all the other criteria, too. My perfect man was, for all intent and purpose, a Disney prince with a bland, inoffensive personality. And completely a figment of my imagination.

People are messy. They come with all sorts of pre-programmed nuttiness. And depending on their childhood, they come with a ton of emotional/mental baggage. The bright ones are slightly depressed. The dim ones can't seem to get out of their own way. By the time one hits thirty, hearts have been so brutally broken that defenses are up to orange alert. These ideal partners we conjure become the standard we set to reduce risk. And some of us (among which I count myself) specify so acutely as to what we need to have in order to settle down, we rule out our entire species. Which makes marriage a non-issue. Can't get married if you can't find the right person. And since the right person doesn't exist, well, then I don't have to worry about maintaining a marriage. And then I don't have to compromise or subvert my own desires. *Phew!*

If you want to talk about philosophical definitions of the word "skeptic," I'm sure the sub-title to Gilbert's book is correct. However, I think it would have been more appropriate to have chosen something like, "A Disillusioned Divorcee Does it Again." But that might be a recognition that Gilbert totally negated the thesis of her first book with this second. With that said, however, I would love to read a book about a scared, skeptical Singleton who actually does make peace with the standing definition of marriage. And succeeds.

The New Voice in My Head

2009-12-10T15:55:00.001-08:00

I've had a pretty rough week. First there was the never ending bank issue. Then, yesterday afternoon, my boss pushed my button so hard I almost quit on the spot, but instead just started to cry. In front of him. In Reception. I really didn't care. Then, last night, I went out to my car after work hours, and my tire was flat. It seems I picked up a nail. And since I knew that my rear tires were balding and I needed an alignment, I knew it was going to cost me. Again. Stupid car. Like I said, rough week. Now here's the thing, usually, I would take this as permission to eat like a fiend. I would sooth myself with cake, or cookies, or potato chips, or my favorite drug of choice, Ice Cream(!). But, I didn't. I did eat a lot of carbs yesterday (a very good pasta lunch comes to mind), but I didn't binge. This, my friends, is a huge step. Further. I didn't want to binge. To which I say, "quelle surprise!" The biggest surprise I got, however, happened this morning at 5:50AM.

I see a trainer five days a week, Monday through Friday. I have been on this routine since mid-July. Lately, it's been dark and very cold every morning, and I've been doing everything in my power to keep the habit going. I tell myself, "I'm just going to lie here awake anyway; may as well go." And, "you'll feel disappointed and bad about yourself later, just get up." However, after the nail incident and three days of financial stress, I came home last night and debated whether I should just call up the trainer and tell her that I was going to skip the Thursday morning workout. My inner voice was saying things like, "I'm going to have to go to Firestone first thing in the morning to get the stupid tire thing done. I don't have time to work out." Except I knew I was rationalizing. Firestone was not going to be open at 6:15AM when I was due at the trainer's. Nor was it an issue to drop the car off on my way into work as Firestone is literally one block from my office building and my boss wouldn't care if I was twenty minutes late. So, I made the mature decision and didn't make the phone and just went to bed.

When the alarm sounded, it was dark and cold in my room and I didn't want to get up. I started to think about the lie I could tell to get out of the work out. I could call the trainer and tell her that I was going to come, but I just realized I had a flat tire and wouldn't be able to make it. Aw, shucks! And then I could sleep in. And, com'on, didn't I deserve it? I was having a rough week! Especially as I checked my checking account balance before I went to bed and noticed that the bank had charged me two more overdraft fees. I needed to stay in bed! At which point, the new, mature, rational voice that has taken up residence in my psyche spoke up.

"You can't stop your financial woes by stopping your training. What you really want to do is control the banking problem and the tire problem, but you can't. So you're trying to compensate by taking control over the one thing you can: your body. Your body and your money have nothing to do with each other. You need to compartmentalize. Your body needs to go to the trainer. Get up. Go the trainer. Take care of the money issue later." To which the whiny, inner six-year old who normally controls my every move, went, "Oh. OK." And got her not-so-big-any-more-because-of-training butt out of bed. (My whiny six-year old responds well to reason. Who knew?)

I worked out, came home, took my shower, and went off to Firestone to buy two new tires, got to the office five minutes late, called my bank and got the overdraft fees worked out (again!), and pretty much went through my day as usual. To be frank, I'm pretty proud of myself for making the right decision. And I'm even more proud of myself for finally recognizing a bad habit I've held my entire life in the moment when its about to be perpetrated. That's the hard part, isn't it? Not only to see it, but to make the opposite decision in order to counteract it. And hopefully to continue to make the right decision each time a similar situation arises. Little by little, I feel like the hardened rock of disappointment, self recrimination, and -- yes -- even self hatred is slowly coming apart inside of me. And what is emerging is a new person with a new voice. It's a very good feeling.

Cleared

2009-12-09T11:19:00.000-08:00

Just in case you were worried about my banking snafu, it is cleared up. I talked to the bank yet again today, and the phantom check disappeared, and the bank credited me the overdraft charges, which -- you know -- was nice of them. But three days of stress can really wear a girl out.

I'm not used to stress like that any more. I do everything I can to keep stress low, low, low, low, low, low, low, low. (Why, yes, I am singing Flo Rida right now.) What I found most interesting about the process, however, was how other people responded to my need. And yes, I was needy. I splashed it all over Facebook. I told everyone at work. Some people were outraged for me. Other people commiserated. One person handed me a $10 bill to get me through the week in case I needed to eat. And another friend offered me cash -- a lot of it -- until it was settled. (Which, to that person, thank you, again! Seriously.) But most people were very hands off and faded into the distance. "Good time, Charlies" my mother would call them. Only around for when I can make them laugh. Or when they needed something from me. I seem to have a bunch of those in my life, and I'm trying hard to accept them for the Charlies they are and not judge them.

To be honest, I find Charlies exhausting as they are always looking for the party, but don't want to do the heavy lifting once real life asserts its self. However, I also used to define -- and congratulate -- myself as the "person who had it together." And, ergo, didn't "need" other people. So, whether I subconsciously filled my life with Charlies is something only my therapist knows (and he would say, "Yes"). Except when one fills one's life with energy-sucking Hoovers, it can get to be a bit much. There was a time, not too long ago, where I used to wish to drop off the face of the planet. I used to think, "I could just go out to the airport and get a one way ticket to some middle state, change my name, and just start all over again. No connections. No needy family or friends. Nothing. A whole new person with a new slate." However, I knew that if I did move to, say, Texas and changed my name to Sammy Jean, I'd still want to be in contact with my mom and sister enough to know that they were OK. Which would kinda defeat the purpose of slipping away into the night. It felt like a no-win situation. What I didn't realize then was that with each new career and each move, I was trying to do that anyway. Trying to forge a new person out of the old one. It didn't feel like it, however, since I was always looking over my shoulder. Those Charlies were quick! It's taken me a long time to recognize, that it was my own guilt and feelings of obligation that kept me tethered to my Charlies no matter where I roamed.

Lately, this wish of disappearing has shifted. And I feel, to a certain degree, freed because of it. I've done a pretty good job of distancing myself emotionally, mentally, and -- yes -- physically. I've slowly come to realize that I am my own person, and that I owe no one anything, not even my family. Because for all that my family gave me, they also took things from me, too. One shouldn't feel that one needs to spend the rest of one's life in servitude to people just because they gave one life and fed you and clothed you. Life, as they say, is a gift. You don't pay someone back for a gift. You just say thank you and move on.

This knowledge has cleared my conscience, and -- most importantly -- has given me a sense of freedom that I've never had before. There's this lightness that has taken residence somewhere beneath the mystical third eye. I can move anywhere and do anything, and all with my own name, and if I win a million dollars tomorrow, no one can say that I owe them anything. Maybe this is all obvious to most people, but for me it is enlightenment. And I feel cleared. Sorry, Charlie.

Pending

2009-12-08T14:08:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I logged into my account on my bank's web site to balance my checkbook from the weekend and got a great big shock. It seems the bank has cashed my rent check twice. One check, #1351, was rightfully made out and endorsed by my landlady, and had cleared by Monday morning as we share the same bank. The other check, #1321, was made out for the same amount to god-knows-who and was "pending." However, check #1321 was used waaay back in June and was made out to the gas company for $11.09. That check cleared in July and therefore should be null. Me, being me, of course, believes that this was human error. Afterall, "both" checks were made out for an odd amount (my rent is stabilized and therefore goes up in strange increments) and since the 2 is right below the 5 on the keypad, well, it just makes sense that someone's finger landed on the wrong digit. No problem to fix, correct? Well, this is the bank we're talking about, so you would be wrong. Majorly, majorly wrong. Worse, by the end of yesterday, they started to charge me overdraft penalties. That Starbucks latte just went from $4.50 t0 $39.50. Gah!

After I picked my stomach up off the floor, I calmly called the 800 number they provide for customer service and after a few automated gymnastics, I got a real person who basically told me that I had to wait 24-hours before they were able to do anything as she couldn't "see" the check and who it was made out to. Considering that check #1321 was in the system, I'm assuming she meant the one that was "cashed" on Friday, but since I'm pretty sure it's a phantom, I'm thinking she's going to be waiting for a long time for something to appear. However, being the patient saint that I am, I did as I was told and waited until this morning to log back in and to see if the check cleared. It was still pending. At which point, I gathered all the documents I needed for checks #1351 and #1321 and marched off to my local branch...where I got no satisfaction, but did get a small lecture about moving my account from Connecticut to California because they could service me better from in-state than out of state (funny, considering I called the national customer service line on Monday and they couldn't help me either, but I digress). The nice lady at my local branch did, however, open "a case" for me and I am now awaiting a phone call from my bank to clarify the matter. If it's bank error, she assured me, all monies including overdraft fees should be replaced by Friday. However, if it's fraud, the bank is going to screw me until they find out who stole the money because it could be me. (There were a couple of questions there that I did my best not to sigh heavily over and roll my eyes in blatant contempt at such amateurish interrogation tactics.) In the meantime, all my funds are frozen. That is, until I get paid next Tuesday, at which point the "overdraft" plus overdraft fees will be covered by my new paycheck. You know, the one that pays all my bills for the month? The bills that if you don't pay them by a specific time you get slapped with late fees and your credit score gets dinged? That paycheck and those bills. I have a feeling my bank is not going to intercede on my behalf with my other creditors and replace those monies. Nooo... "Bend over, sweetheart. This is going to hurt. A lot."

As I maintain that this is human error and not fraud, I have faith that this will be cleared up by Friday. Weirdly, I'm really not emotionally involved in this, and I'll tell you why. While I'm annoyed by the inconvenience, I think this is a cosmic test. You see, I've been stressing about money all year long (evidenced by a couple of earlier posts, follow the "lottery" label below). And all year long, I've been wanting to win or earn enough money to wipe out my debt completely. I've wanted to ease my way and clear my path towards something else (what else? I have no idea). So, just at the most stressful time of the year, the time when I need the most money, I lose 1/3 of my income through no fault of my own. Once again, I feel like Dian Fossey watching the gorillas, except this time, I'm watching the cosmos. What will happen? How will this right itself? I've been learning to let go. Maybe this is just one more area from which I need to pry my fingers.

Blog Topics

2009-12-01T07:06:00.000-08:00

For the past few weeks now, I've thought of different blog topics to write about but have never got around to them. Or, more honestly, started to write them only to lose steam and discard them. What have I thought about recently? Glad you asked.

1. De-friending people on Facebook. I did this very recently and it was awful. I felt like I was sneaking around and that the de-friended acquaintances -- because that's what they are, really -- would think me a bitch. And I kept people I really didn't want to keep, but knew that they would realize that I de-friended them because these are the random people who usually comment on my wall. I also kept some people because they're my "friends" in some of the FB games I play and I want to keep my farm neighbors and Mafia close. (What?) Fingers crossed that my brothers' ex-girlfriends don't realize they've been cut lose...

2. eHarmony. I've eluded to my "dating" in the blog, but I haven't really written about the experience or how I feel about it. Mostly because I'm ambivalent. I think I've learned more about myself through this entire process than about the guys I've been matched with. I haven't gotten a "date" yet, but that's mostly because I'm dragging my feet. And I kinda don't care about it. Still, I'm doing it and trying to remain hopeful.

3. My Thanksgiving trip in Denver, Colorado. I'm usually pretty habitual about writing about my travels. Where I went, what I saw, who I was with, and what I thought. In fact, there were a few blogs that I probably shouldn't have written back when I was posting on MySpace about a couple of weddings I was in. But this time, I don't feel like I have anything to say. Colorado was interesting in so much as I didn't realize people still lived like that. It really is a different world in the middle of this country. And while I wouldn't mind visiting my aunt again, I think I saw everything I needed to see in three days. Which, I think, says a lot right there.

4. Diet, exercise, and addiction. I've spent the majority of this year working out. In the last few months, I started working on my food issues. Which were legion. While some people in my family have turned to drugs and drink for their addictions, it seems I turned to food. Food was my best friend, my partner, my drug of choice to carry me through. It sounds silly, I know. But when you're tanking down a pint of Cherry Garcia on a Friday night in front of the TV because you're too scared to get outside and make friends because you don't think you're interesting enough, or attractive enough, and you hate your self for it, what else do you call it? Let me tell you something, I know drug addicts. And I know alcoholics. Intimately. It's the same symptom, it's just a different medication. And screw anyone who has something to say about fat people, because I will identify their drug of choice with five questions and it will be drug, drink, sex, or gambling. Whatever gets you through, my friend. But don't throw stones.

5. My female family. It has recently come to my attention through a conversation with my Aunt Bev -- and then another conversation with my Aunt Liz -- that I was brought up in a matriarchy. You see, the men in my family kinda suck. They kill themselves, drink, fight, and do drugs. Oh, and cheat on their wives and girlfriends. I can tell you horror stories about my childhood that would make you think that I was brought up in the ghetto involving knives and girlfriends showing up at the front door. But I digress. Kinda. Anyway. I was brought up in the bosom of my father's family. There's my grandmother, three boys, and five girls. And every single one of the girls is kick ass in her own way. As as women are wont to do, they circled the nest. I grew up with aunts who loved and nurtured me. I'm one of those people who was brought up by a tribe. A female tribe. The problem with this is that I don't trust men as far as I can punt them, and at the end of the day, when I feel like I need to connect and re-charge, I always go back to the women. Hm. Maybe this one is a blog post afterall.

Mind Wide Open

2009-11-24T10:16:00.000-08:00

I've decided that I'm ready for a new adventure. The only issue I have now is what adventure it will be. And while I'm normally very pro-active about choosing my own adventure, I'm kinda curious to see what the universe might bring me instead. Kinda like being a six-year old on Christmas Eve, sitting in her feetie pajamas hoping that Santa brings a Barbie, but really excited about what else might come, too. That's how I feel right now. I want to see what else will come.

In the past, I've been very risk adverse because the way to manage disappointment is to prepare, research, manipulate, control, and prepare. Oh, and prepare. Did I mention prepare? Want to move to New York? Where will I live? How much can I afford? How much will I have to make? How will I make friends? What kind of clothes will I need? What kind of job do I want? Where do I find that job? Manage, manage, manage. Prepare, prepare, prepare. And then, when opportunity knocks, well, I'm sitting there with my jacket on and my suitcase packed. I am Ready. The only problem -- and it's a small problem at that -- is that it takes all the surprise out of life. There is no room for spontaneity. No room for a pleasant detour. No room for anything actually other than a satisfying end to a well thought out endeavor. Which is nice. And boring. Did I mention boring? Because it is. It's really, really boring.

Yeah. I'm bored. That's the problem with living a carefully planned and managed life. While I have had few disappointments, I've had even fewer surprises. While I've managed to keep drama low, I've also managed to keep exhilaration equally low. I am not a naturally careful individual. I've been nurtured into being one. But, as I've said before, I'm trying to think in different ways, give up the raft, and get a pair of hiking shoes. I'm thinking about taking a risk. I'm just not quite sure how to do that. It seems awfully, umm, risky.

Recently, I received an email from a friend of mine who is currently living in Germany. She has made me an offer: Quit my job and come live with her for six months while I write my book. I would love to do this but I'm scared. How will I make money? How will I pay off my debt? In the meantime, I've put my resume into my dream company and have gotten a tepid response. Considering I've applied several times before and never got a response, tepid feels pretty terrific. And, of course, I'm thinking about dating again and actually moving towards doing it with a little help of a dating website. So what am I doing to further these prospects? Very little, except to keep my mind wide open. And to allow the universe to move something towards me, instead of pushing against it to make whatever I want happen. I'm not going to prepare, research, manipulate, control, and prepare. And manage. Did I mention manage? I'm going to allow things to happen. Naturally. Finally. And see what comes.

A Modern Fairy Tale

2009-11-16T11:20:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time, there was a single gal about town who was as fabulous as the feminist movement said she should be. She was well-read, well-rounded, and perhaps a wee bit too well fed. She cared about her mind and pooh-poohed vainglorious pursuits like waxing and Pilate's. She blithely moved through her life firm in the knowledge that there would be "plenty of time for boys later" and that "it'll happen when you least expect it." Until one day, the single gal found herself midway between 36 and 37 surrounded by boys who had turned into men and no expectations about any of them. At which point, she re-signed with eHarmony to her annoyance.

What the single gal figured was, if she joined a dating web site and kept her expectations as low as humanly possible, she was bound to get a date or two out of the experiment and -- at the very least -- stop feeling like a dateless, unattractive freak. Maybe, just maybe, she would start feeling a little confident about her abilities to attract a member of the opposite sex. Except, of course, as certain attractive men closed her out while other not as desirable men started communication, Single Gal came to the startlingly realization that in her heart of hearts, she was an uncompromising romantic. That somehow, she had bought lock, stock, and barrel into the fantasy that if she was her very best person possible, a handsome, well-read, well-rounded man who believed in egalitarian partnerships with fabulous women would see her from across the room and would be charmed by the silly way she tossed her hair when she laughed and choose her...conveniently forgetting, of course, that she did not toss her hair when she laughed. Hair tossing aside, this was a very unfortunate realization for the single gal.

"Sleeping Beauty. Waiting for the prince to wake her with a kiss," The Good Fairy, Andie, commented during a brunch when Single Gal brought up her romantic disillusionment. The analogy was so accurate that the single gal was acutely embarrassed. It was true. Growing up, she was a fairy tale fiend. Her teen years were filled with romance novels. She still, in her mid-30s -- preferred Meg Ryan romantic comedies -- You've Got Mail, Sleepless in Seattle, French Kiss -- to any other kind of movie available. Movies where Fate brought the soul mates together in a happily ever after kiss! (And all with virtually no work on the woman's side!) To quote Meg in When Harry Met Sally, "Yes! Yes! Yes!" At the median age of 36.5-years old, Single Gal came to the gross conclusion that she still held the romantic notions of an 8 year old. (*ouch!*) It was a bitter pill, and one she didn't want to swallow. Life was so hard in all the other areas, couldn't she get a break in just this one? Didn't everyone always tell Single Gal how fantastic she was and that eventually she was going to end up with the very best of men because, well, she deserved it?! And yet, all the evidence was to the contrary. When she really started to break down the relationships of the women around her, she started to see a pattern. There were a lot of women out there who did the choosing. Her two married sisters, and twice married mother, for instance. Four out of five girlfriends easily. All of them had chosen the guy and got him! What was that about? And why didn't any one write a fairy tale or Meg Ryan movie about that?!

"Think about it," The Good Fairy continued, "if you do the choosing, then you get to decide your own fate. Men are flattered by a woman's attention. So even though they might not necessarily choose you, their ego is stroked if you choose them. So at the end of the day, you get the guy you want instead of having to take whatever comes your way."

The Good Fairy was right, of course, and appealed to Single Gal's ridiculously over-developed sense of self. So Single Gal went right home and logged back onto eHarmony ready to be a kick-ass princess of her own modern fairy tale. And after about twenty minutes, she logged back out feeling disappointed, underwhelmed, and depressed. Because suddenly, she wanted better princes to choose from.

The moral of the story is: kick ass princesses are more picky than sleeping beauties.

Magic, Miracles, and Luck

2009-11-11T15:43:00.000-08:00

If I had a million dollars, (if I had a million dollars!)
I'd buy you a house. (I would buy you a house!)

Oh, excuse me! You caught me singing in the blogger. I was just thinking about the Barenaked Ladies song, If I Had a Million Dollars. They were willing to buy a lot of things with a million dollars, but I think they were tragically overestimating how far that million would go. (Because I'll tell you right now, my love alone would cost more than a million. Have you seen the lead singer of Barenaked Ladies? No? Here's his mug shot.) I've been thinking about money a lot lately, mostly because I haven't any. No raise this year, and no freelance writing assignment either. Man. It's hard out here for a, um, well, single gal with steady employment. I have no reason to complain really, so I won't, especially since everyone I know has this same kind of cruddy feeling. "Be happy you're employed," they say. "I am, I am!" I reply, hands waving in surrender. But still. Can't help but to feel slightly crappy and fatigued with the whole recession thing. I wonder how people got through the Great Depression. Years and years of feeling like this. Must've sucked. I mean, it does suck! So... (this is a tangent that's not going anywhere, just so you know. Anyway...)

I've been thinking about playing the lottery again. I've decided that one dollar isn't enough to win, but that five dollars is too much to lose, so I've settled on three dollars. I think I can spare three dollars a week to buy lottery tickets. The way I figure it, even if I don't win, I'm still helping the state of California and the good Lord knows the state needs something. I encourage Bill Gates, Barbra Streisand and all other multi-millionaires/billionaires living in the Golden State to do the same. Play $20, maybe $50 a pop. If you win, give the proceeds to charity. Your state needs you! Of course, what I really want is to win myself. I don't even want to win big. Just big enough. In fact, big enough to invest wisely and not feel threatened, but not enough that it becomes national news and my family finds out. I would like to win, um, maybe, ten million (after taxes). Ten million would be nice. I could pay off my debt, buy my new favorite car (in red!), buy spontaneous gifts for my favorite little human beings, and go on any and all vacations as they arise. Doesn't that sound lovely?

My newest problem (isn't there always a new one?) is that I've recently realized that I have held a steady belief in magic and miracles my whole life and with all the crushingly bad news about the state of the economy, the rise of unemployment, the anti-abortion amendment in the health care reform bill, the Fort Hood murders, Glenn Beck's book jacket, -- just about everything in the news, really! -- I'm beginning to think there is no magic or miracles to be had. This knowledge is depressing me in ways that I couldn't have even expected. I seem to have lost hope for something good to happen mainly because everyone else is screaming about how bad it is and will continue to get if we don't hand power over to Sarah Palin now! OK, well, maybe that last part is a bit hysterical, but you know what I mean. My therapist, however, thinks that this death of miracles and magic might be good for me as it means that I will work from a place of reality. He seems to have forgotten that the reason I've opted for magic and miracles is because I've had just a little too much reality in my life prior to age eighteen. If I didn't believe that miracles and magic could happen, I'd probably be dead of a drug overdose by now and not living in L.A. following a fantastical dream. As if to bribe a child away from its pacifier, my therapist offered me "luck" instead of my m&ms. That's right: luck. I'd rather stick with magic and miracles.

I don't know what's going to happen, not in the world or even my own psyche. I suppose I'm just hoping for a little hope right now, no matter what form it takes. New employment. A well-paying freelance gig. Something that makes me feel like tomorrow is going to be a little easier than today. Like winning the lottery for example. Which, coincidentally, could be considered either very lucky or magical and miraculous. I'll leave it up to you to decide...after it happens.

Little Dresses for Little Girls

2009-11-06T15:04:00.001-08:00

You might have noticed recently that I'm a little ga-ga over my nieces. I am seriously in love. And considering that Christmas is coming up, I'm already plotting to buy their love in return. Hey, I'm 3,000 miles away. I've gotta come up with something to make me memorable. "Who are you again? Oh! The woman who sent the American Girl dolls?! I love you!" I was just in GAP looking for a wrap sweater and maybe some detailed or appliqued tee shirts and never made it past BabyGAP and their dress selection. Did you know the Stella McCartney has new line for GAPKids? Oh, yes, she does. Some little boy needs that band jacket. Hello, Sgt. Pepper! Anyway... I love being an auntie. All the dress up and none of the spit up. Although, I have to say that my sister needs to start posting more pictures of Abigail. My brother and his wife are ridiculously good about posting photos of the twins on Facebook, and I think my sister needs to take a lesson. Ahem.

These babies, of course, are making me think about my own procreation. I think I've been in denial for a long time about my chances. And maybe even about my age. (Umm, OK, definitely about my age.) I keep thinking that once I've got my act together I can get married and then have some kids. Because that would be the adult and responsible thing to do. But I'm really beginning to think that I'll never have it together. (And quite frankly, who really ever does?) So, should I not get married and have my own little princess to dress in a fabulous Stella McCartney tutu? No! Should I be looking for a Baby Daddy to seduce with my feminine charms and get cracking? Yes! Am I? Erm... OK, so the Baby Daddy part is still a wee little hurdle to get over. But I'm working on the issue. (No, I really am this time; I mean it!) In the meantime, I will be ogling small Callahan children from a far and patiently bidding my time until Christmas when I can get my hands on them. And, if by chance after Christmas I go off the grid, it's because I've stolen one of the twins. Probably this one...

Look at her in that beret! *Sigh!*

The Lob

2009-11-04T14:21:00.000-08:00

I'm tired of my hair. Long is nice and all, but it's a bit blah. The only thing I like about my hair right now is that I can put it up into a relatively nice bun. But that's kinda blah, too. I spoke to my stylist about this back in September and she suggested that I check into a "lob." That's a long bob. (Yeah. We both agree it's a stupid name for a haircut, too.) So, I checked it out. I kinda like Nicole Ritchie's lob.

But, Nicole and I don't have similar hair. I'm pretty sure there is a lot of processing and straightening that goes on there, which adds to her volume.

I think I can get the Lauren Conrad look.

But that kinda looks like the haircut I have right now, just three inches shorter.

I'm pretty sure Heidi Klum and I have similar hair, but it feels less lob and more bob on Heidi.

The only thing I know for certain -- and which I'm terrified of -- is that I don't want Gwen Paltrow's lob. It looks stringy and unfortunate.

What to do, what to do?! (Seriously, what am I going to do?)

Abigail!

2009-11-02T10:38:00.000-08:00

My newest little niece with her grandmother (better known to me as Mom). Sigh. I'm so happy!

A Little Mascara

2009-10-30T09:34:00.000-07:00

This morning, after my shower and two minutes before I walked out the door, I took a moment to brush some mascara onto my eyelashes. I do this every day. My eyelashes are a light brown (or dark blonde!) and usually when I skip the process people comment on how tired I look. A little make-up goes a long way, so I make the sacrifice.

I have a very complicated relationship with make-up. I've got all sorts of thoughts about it. Some of it good, some of it, umm, not. I don't know why I've made make-up into an "issue." My mother wears it. And her mother wore it. My sister wears it. It's not like it wasn't around the house or anyone told me I shouldn't wear it because bunnies have been blinded by liquid eyeliner. It could, of course, come from those Catholic school years when we weren't able to wear any make-up at all except for Chapstick, and even then plain Chapstick over Cherry Chapstick because Cherry Chapstick was red and might rouge your lips a bit. (You're wondering if that last bits true. I'll leave it up to you to decide. But let me just qualify that I had nuns in my school.) By the time I stumbled into high school, I wasn't too sure about the make-up thing. I tried it, of course, after eight years of being told I couldn't, but the novelty quickly waned. I had acne, you see, and make-up seemed to exacerbate the situation especially as I was trying to cover it up. It felt so obvious that that was what I was doing. It wasn't awful acne, but I was a girl and any pimple was one pimple too many, so, instead, I opted out of the make-up wars and let the other girls with smoother skin give it a go. I kept thinking, "later."

When the acne finally cleared up in my twenties, I had become a wash-and-go kind of girl. I would literally wake up 30 minutes before I had to be anywhere, shower for twenty, dress and, well, here's where the mascara came in because I had to put some make-up on by now, didn't I? Then dash out the door with my hair wet. I kept a full face of make-up for special occasions. The problem was, when special occasions arose, I never felt comfortable applying the barely used Cover Girl products I kept stashed in a drawer. I knew how to apply make-up; I read enough "girly magazines" to know the proper techniques and colors for my coloring. However, it always felt "too much." Or "caked on." I didn't want to look "like a clown" (my mother's words). So I usually put on very little with the hopes that it would look natural only to get to wherever I was going to see that my friends applied a lot more and looked very good for their efforts. I assured myself, however, that when I "needed" make-up (IE, when I was "old" and ergo "unattractive"), I would do better...then.

I have to admit that I was very lucky during this time. Whenever I mentioned that I didn't wear make-up, girls would give me a literal double take and then try to get in closer for a look at my pores. Whenever I posed for WD magazine (they were infamous for using their editorial staff as models), the design editor would compliment me by saying, "I barely had to photoshop you at all." Who needed make-up? Youth was its own reward! Unfortunately, youth fades, and I woke up one morning around the age of thirty and realized that I had a sunspot on my cheek. Reality started to seep in. But, I refused to give in. I didn't need make-up. "Not yet," I kept telling myself.

This morning, during my two minute check-the-face timeout, right before dashing out the door to work, I looked at my skin. I've got another sun spot, one that I've been monitoring for awhile now. I've got two raised moles instead of the one that seemed glamorous back when I was twenty-five. There's a blotchiness to my skin tone that I never had before. I've come to the conclusion that I'm old...er. Sigh. No one is asking to take my picture any more. And if they do, there will be photoshopping, I assure you. And while I'm not wearing make-up daily, I do use the concealer stick with a light powder and some rougue on the weekends. Just to give me the kind of skin I used to have naturally. As for the heavy make-up? I still don't like it. Recently, a friend of mine -- a professional make-up artist, mind you -- "dolled [me] up" before a night on the town. I felt awkward and unnatural. And then I felt bad because she wanted that reality make-over "Wow! I never knew I could look like this!" response, and I didn't give it to her. I just couldn't. I've been made-up before (weddings comes to mind, that one afternoon at Sephora when I got wrangled into a chair thinking I would get the reality show feeling). I just don't feel like myself. I feel like, well, like I'm putting on a mask. Or, worse, warrior paint going into battle. And maybe that is the real issue of make-up for me. I've never wanted to be perceived as a fake or a fraud or a phony. I'm very big on exposing myself, warts and all, to every person who bumps into me. "This is me. Deal with it." I realize this is slightly confrontational (the word "femi-nazi" comes to mind), but the jokes about women not being confident enough to be seen without their make-up make me cringe. (Mary Kay, who never let her husband or children see her without make-up, makes me sad. Did she not like herself as God made her that she felt she had to cover up her own natural beauty? Or was that just a really committed way to selling the product? I never understood.) I mean, the beauty business is not a billion dollar industry because they make women feel good about themselves. Advertising firms are paid very good money to make women feel less-than so that they go out and buy the product to feel good-enough. That is, until the next new thing hits the market. "You thought Lash Blast was good? Wait until you see vibrating mascara! It will change your world!" To which I say, "Really? Puh-leeze."

I may never reach an age where I feel I "need" make-up. Though, I do think I'm getting closer to the age where I might start to apply at least some concealer and a light powder on a daily basis just to tame the blotchiness a bit (maybe. I mean forty is coming). At the same time, however, I'm still not to a place where I enjoy putting on a face full of make-up to make the most of my looks. My eyes could look a little bigger, a little bluer. My lips probably could stand to be a bit plumper. But it all feels one step closer to Plasticsville. I just can't seem to wrap my head around it quite yet. And maybe I don't have to. Not because I'm above such things, but because I'm coming to a place where I can accept that some women enjoy playing with make-up, and some don't. It doesn't make one less -- or more -- of a woman one way or the other. It's not a political statement. Or a statement about one's self image. Make-up is supposed to be about feeling good about yourself. So however much you use shouldn't be up to the beauty industry's standard of beauty but about how beautiful you feel when you use their product. For me, a little mascara seems to do the trick pretty well.

Workhorse

2009-10-14T16:23:00.000-07:00

Back when I was 18, I was the Dunkin' Donuts girl. I poured coffee for harried New Englanders eager to get a caffeine jolt late in the day. I did that dirty little job, five until midnight, five days a week for five years. I was a regular ol' workhorse. I know that because my boss, Bill, described me this way to his best friend, Mark. I'll never forget standing in the bakery when he said it. "Jessica is a workhorse." Not, "Jessica is a loyal and valued worker." Not, "I trust Jessica completely." No. "Jessica is a workhorse." And he said it with a smirk. Mark smiled. (Mark, it should be disclosed, is my second cousin. If he did more than smile, I would have punched him in the gut and tattled to our grandmother.) Considering I was a teenager who was self conscious about her weight, the last thing I wanted was to be called was a Clydesdale, if you know what I mean. In my over-active imagination, my co-workers were flirty, frisky fillies, while I was the beaten down dray horse plowing the field.

Let me be frank, before that day, I actually took pride in the fact that I got the job done and did it well. But after the workhorse moniker, I wanted to quit. Seriously. I hated Bill at that moment, and, as you can tell, I'm still bitter about it eighteen years later. However, I was a workhorse, and regardless that my efforts were being mocked, I couldn't stop being one. Capable was what I was. And capable, I would continue to be.

I left Dunkin' Donuts and became a booking officer at a local police department. (Why, yes, I did go from doughnut girl to the cop shop.) If I was mocked for my industry at the restaurant, I was exploited at the PD. The problem there was that it became evident fairly quickly that if a cop wanted a job done quickly and done right, well, he called Jessica! She's that capable, conscientious little worker bee who is eager and willing to prove herself. My need to please got me so overloaded with responsibilities --from organizing the town's Open House to helping the Warrant Squad investigate felons -- that I had a mild freak out one night due to low blood sugar. I smashed my fist into a locker in the booking room after a girl tried to hook punch me. They sent me to a therapist shortly after this. "Jessica, you need to learn how to say no. Try it. Say no." Are you kidding me? Yeah, let me get right on that. Sorry, Captain, I won't help the warrant squad. Excuse me, what's that? Oh, it's part of my 'other duties as needed'? Do I want a verbal warning in my personnel file for insubordination? Umm, no? After this incident, however, I did learn the value of telling people, "I'll get to that when I can. But if its an emergency, you can speak to my sergeant about it." They never did and amazingly things still got done.

Being a workhorse in publishing is actually admired, believe it or not. Its just that you'll never get promoted or monetarily compensated for it. No, instead, you'll get threatened; reminded -- and often -- that there are at least twenty people standing right behind you who would do it better and cheaper and for longer and you should just grateful for having the job. Right. Thanks.

If I thought things would be different in TV then I would have been wrong. But, luckily, I had no expectation. After more than a decade in the work force, I've come to the keen conclusion that I am a workhorse, and workhorses are just not valued in contemporary American society. It's more important to know someone at the top and use good adjectives in your resume than it is to actually be able to complete the job that's listed in the advertisement. Give good interview, secure the job, then do just enough to not get fired. It's a Dilbert world, people. I was reminded of this today. (Because you knew this was coming from somewhere, didn't you?)

"Jessica, can you come up front?" asked the Receptionist through the intercom.

When I arrived up front, my boss was trying to place a brad into a script while his assistant just sat at her desk. Okaaay.

"I need you to cover this. Soon. But it doesn't have to be tonight," he said. Which means, he wants me to read it tomorrow and give him coverage before he leaves work tomorrow evening. Hopefully, he won't leave early. "This guy met (my boss's boss) at the 'Irena' screening and now, come to find out, this guy knows (my boss's assistant) and is hounding her about it."

Um, let me get this right: This writer was invited to our screening -- probably through my boss's assistant -- and met my boss's boss -- probably because my boss's assistant pointed him out -- and now I've got to read his bad script -- which both my boss and my boss's boss have deemed unlikely -- because my boss's assistant is being annoyed by the writer/acquaintance's persistence. Why isn't my boss's assistant reading it? Well, because regardless that the hounding is so overwhelming that she has to complain to the boss about it, the frisky filly might not get to it...so give it to the workhorse.

I used to think that if one proved oneself capable and efficient, an employer would value that and give one greater opportunities. You know. To get promoted. To get ahead. She's good, she's capable, she has the ability to go far in this company! We value her and her work ethic! However. That's not the way it works, does it? As my therapist used to say, No. Instead, what happens is the workhorse gets all the, well, work, while the frisky filly gets the opportunities. Why? People have all sorts of answers to that question, but I personally think it comes down to respect. People don't respect the guy who shines their shoes, picks up their garbage, or does the menial job they don't want to do themselves. Like reading bad scripts. It needs to be done, obviously, just not by the sexy people. The sexy people are too busy doing other, more sexy things. (I never know what, but they are always too busy doing it to make their own copies.) And, let's be honest, one would never hook up their Arabian to a plow, would they? No. But a Clydesdale is just made for plow pulling, now isn't it? It gets the job done. It's capable, sturdy, efficient. It's a workhorse. We appreciate the job the Clydesdale does, we just don't respect him for it.

While I resisted it back when I was 18, I'm just now coming to irrefutable conclusion that I am a Clydesdale. And while the frisky fillies will fail upward to become CEOs, the best I can hope for is stay healthy and not get shot in the field.

Family Myth

2009-10-09T11:24:00.000-07:00

"You realize that that is a book waiting to happen?" My therapist said last night.

"Yeah, I know. My family actually wants me to write it," I answered uneasily. "But I don't think they understand that they won't come off so well. Plus, it's really difficult to write it. I mean, do I go linear? Or use flashbacks to fill in the voids? And, *sigh*, I don't even know what's real! At the end of the day, it's more like a Tolstoy novel than a memoir."

I was trying to talk about my dad, but in order for my dad to be understood, I always feel like I have to go back to his dad. And in order for his dad to be understood, you've got to go back to his dad. Luckily, at that point, the stories get a little fuzzy so Great Grandpa Callahan's legacy is diluted as far as my psyche goes. The single story that does get passed down on Carleton Callahan involves a physically abusive alcoholic, a Christmas tree, and teenage sons lying in wait. If you have an alcoholic in your family, you know how that one ends. I bring these things up in therapy more as a breadcrumb trail for my therapist than an excavation of my troubled past. Except, after leaving my session last night, I started to think more about the Callahan Clan and how I feel burdened by their history. However, somewhere near UCLA, it hit me that I didn't know the Callahan history as much as I knew the family lore. The stories that have been handed down to me by an older generation. Stories that were handed down to them from people who were supposedly eye witnesses. At which point my former cop turned to my former editor and said, "Eyewitness accounts are unreliable. Where does the truth end and the fiction begin?" My former editor answered, "You can't fact check any of this. The participants are all dead. These are oral narratives."

Ahh, storytelling! Now, we're talking. When I was younger, I equated my love of story with my love for books. But! I also loved television and movies. And I loved a good recounting of a dramatic family vacation. I even loved gossip as long as there was a beginning, a middle, and an end. I considered all these loves separate identities. Different boyfriends, if you will. But I've recently realized that they weren't separate boyfriends, just different facets of the same boyfriend, and his name is Narrative. Now, I'm beginning to wonder if this love of narration comes from the family that enjoys telling a good story in the guise of a melodramatic family history. (Did I mention these folks are Irish? Hmm...)

Once I took the personal involvement out of the equation, I was able to hear the stories in a new way. They really were quite interesting. Like the one about my Great Grandmother Mary coming from Italy as a poor orphan, put into a Catholic convent, adopted by her much older sister, impregnanted by an Irishman then married to a widower. This is the stuff great literature! Or the very least, a good beach read! Instead of feeling burdened by these crazies, I felt excited about them. Hey, I can make some money off of these people! And suddenly, they were all forgiven. Every single one of them. Thearpy. Good for psyche. Good for the wallet.

Five Year Plan

2009-10-06T11:47:00.000-07:00

I still haven't gotten over the fact that I live in California and not in the great Northeast. And I'm still resistant to the idea that I might always live here. I don't want to, I whine. But since I no longer know what I want, this adversity might just be a cranky-baby, knee jerk reaction. I no like California! Of course, I no liked New York, Hoboken, Manchester, Newington, or Bristol (and I knocked Seattle out of the running before even visiting). So, this might just be a reoccurring theme. And maybe -- and I'm just throwing it out there -- my issues with California are not really with California. Maybe, just maybe, my issues are a bit more internal.

I keep trying to parse out exactly what I do want out of my life, but I'm coming up empty handed at every turn. Do I want to get married? Umm, OK. But my desire to get married is more about a fear of growing old alone and never having that connection with somebody. I want a travel partner, a confidante, and a guy attractive enough to have sex with occasionally. Seriously, that's all I want out of marriage. Throw in a good conversationalist with a playful sense of humor, and I will have won the lottery. Do I want to have kids? Yeah, that'd be nice. But Lord knows why anyone truly wants a child. The reasons run from biological need to "I just want to know what it would look like." I'm somewhere in the middle. Do I want to win an Academy Award or run a business? Sigh. Shrug. Maybe. If it happens, it happens. If it doesn't, it doesn't. Whatever. Not the end of the world.

Let me just admit right now that this blase attitude of mine is freaking me the hell out. I've always thought of myself as a directed and ambitious person. I've spent the majority of my life with a five year life plan. My thinking was, "Get in, get it done, and see how you like it." Cop? Sure. Six years later, I was in New York publishing. Five years after that, I'm in television in Los Angeles. I should have called it the "Five Years Then Out" plan. Because I'd get bored with whatever I was doing at the end of the five years, re-evaluate, tear it up, and peel out of town once again. But that 17-year old girl who swore a blood oath that she was breaking out of her hometown and setting the world ablaze has turned into a 36-year old who can't be bothered to strike the match any more. I blame therapy. I'm no longer mad at God, or my parents, or myself, so I've lost the energy to destroy any and all who get in my way. You wanna pass me? Go right ahead. Let me know what it looks like from the top of the corporate ladder, at the end of the aisle, in the maternity ward. I'll get there when I get there. Maybe. If I don't? Eh.

So, if I don't want to live anywhere in particular, or get married, or have a kid, or own my own business/win an Oscar, what do I want? I don't know, and the question is killing me! It's as if these are the only options. Remember those Choose Your Own Adventure novels that were big in the 80s? I feel like I'm living in one of those. But I've read all the adventures and I'm kinda disappointed in the way they all end, so... why bother? I'd like something different. But I'm beginning to think there isn't anything different. I'm beginning to realize that there are just small differences in how we choose to get married, have kids, or navigate a career. The existential angst of the midlife crisis -- Is this all there is?! -- is hitting me at 36. And if I'm asking that question now (with a deep abiding fear that the answer is Yes) then I'm in trouble ten years from now. Of course, ten years is two five year plans. Or Med School. Dr. Callahan? Hmm.... Maybe. Sigh. Maybe not.

The Raft

2009-10-02T11:36:00.000-07:00

A friend sent me this recently. It was from her Chinese philosophy class:

Suppose a man were traveling along a path. He sees a great expanse of water, with the near shore dubious and risky, the further shore secure and free from risk, but with neither a ferryboat nor a bridge going from this shore to the other. The thought would occur to him, 'What if I were to gather grass, twigs, branches, and leaves and, having bound them together to make a raft, were to cross over to safety on the other shore with the raft, making an effort with my hands and feet?' So the man gathered grass, twigs, branches,and leaves, and bound them together to make a raft. He crossed over safely to the other shore using the raft by propelling it with his hands and feet. Upon reaching the further shore, he might think, 'How useful this raft has been to me! Why don't I, having hoisted it on my head or carrying on my back, go wherever I like?' What do you think, monks: Would the man, in doing that, be doing what should be done with the raft?"

"No, lord." replied the monks.

The moral of the story is to dump the raft because there is nothing in life worth clinging to - especially the past or that rocky shore that you are leaving behind. There is also a message about the sacrifices we will have to make in the name of spiritual living and the seeking of enlightenment. Sometimes there are easier ways and we need to learn to keep things in proper perspective so we aren't swept away with the illusory attraction of suffering.

So, why am posting this and what were the friend and I talking about that would prompt this philosophical lesson? We were talking about the tools one collects to survive their childhood and how those tools can sometimes hinder us in our adult years. We hold onto the hammer and the wrench, regardless that what we might really need is a screwdriver and a saw. But instead of trading the hammer and the wrench for a screwdriver and a saw, we try to make the hammer and the wrench do the same work as a screwdriver and a saw. "If I just use this back and hack a away, then I can...goddammit! Why isn't this working?!"

I'm a Catholic. Let's just put that out there. I went to Catholic school. And regardless that I've sorted through a lot of the dogma to pull out the bits I like best and disregarded those that I think are a bit too man-made, I've been brainwashed to believe that suffering is for the best. That if you suffer enough, then God will reward you. You have to give and give and give, and then someday, when God has decided that you've given enough, He will just hand over your heart's desire. When I think about the Old Testament suffering that the Jews did under genocidal maniacs, and Christians did under the Romans, you can see how this might have appealed back in the day. They weren't giving as much as everything was being taken away. But when a girl is living in contemporary America, the land of plenty, suffering feels more self-inflicted than external. I feel like I'm choosing to suffer versus enduring suffering at the hands of some overlord bent on my destruction. Catholics are big on this self flagellation and extreme asceticism to reach God. We believe in it to a degree, despite that only zealots practice it. And while I don't consider myself a zealot, I've been practicing a bit of both flagellation and asceticism in the hopes of being worthy of something bigger and better. But I'm beginning to think that I need to put the cat-o-nine-tails down and slowly step away, because it ain't working.

I spent my entire childhood looking at the adults standing above me and silently thinking to myself, "Please, Jesus, don't let me make the mistakes these people have." Drug addiction, teen pregnancy, alcoholism, shot gun weddings, suffering silently in an abusive marriage, high drama divorce, et cetera, et cetera. My plan, since the age of six, was to escape to Hollywood. Why? Well, because Hollywood is the place where make-believe becomes reality. If I could dream it, it could happen in Hollywood.

I could go off on a tangent about how Hollywood is all glamour -- in the old school use of the word -- but this post isn't about how L.A. has "let me down." Afterall, it's not Hollywood's fault that I came with an unrealistic expectation of it's magical prowess. But it's about the things I did in order to be different from my family. I didn't want to be a pregnant teen, so I gained weight, wore men's clothes, and cut off my hair. I didn't want to get married and shackle myself to a man who would keep me in Connecticut, so I dated inappropriate men in my twenties. I didn't want to have a baby out of wedlock, so I stopped having sex. In fact, in my quest to "not be like them", I denied myself a lot and kept moving. But I believed that by sacrificing love and commitment, I was courting favor with the Big Guy Upstairs and that I would be rewarded for it with lots of money, some glory, maybe a little fame, and an Oscar. Not only would I be different, but I would be superior! I would be favored by God...and the Academy!

Yeah...that didn't really work out the way I hoped, and to be honest, I'm a little embarrassed to admit that I believed that this is the way the world -- and God -- worked. But these are tools that got me through childhood and to where I am today. A pretty successful human being for the most part. However, I don't need them any more. And while I'm ready to put away "childish things", now what? I've got some ideas. I know what I'd like to do or at least have next. But it feels like a great big mountain is in front of me....and I'm sitting here with a raft.

Twins

2009-09-16T15:57:00.000-07:00

I totally stole these pictures of the twins from my brother Rick's facebook page.

The first picture is Cara while she's looking up at my brother Colby.

Doesn't it look like she's just heard something incredible?
"Gasp! Shut up! You're my father?"

The look on Chloe's face just slays me. And that tiny Mona Lisa smile? I love it!

Sigh! I can't wait to get my hands on them come Christmas...

Who's Your Daddy?

2009-09-15T13:57:00.001-07:00

"I saw your facebook link," I said.

"Yeah?" My sister answered.

"I loved it. I loved every minute of it. Especially that part in the middle." I sighed dreamily.

"I know! I've played it three times and every time I cry. I love him. I want him to be my father!" My sister rhapsodized.

What -- or should I say, who -- were we talking about? President Obama and his speech to school children. The one where zealot parents kept their children home from school terrified that the President of the United States was going to go all The Ring and zombie'fy their children into walking, talking health care Nazis. My sister is a teacher in the south Bronx. That speech summed up everything she has to say every day in a million little ways to children who don't believe that school has anything to offer them: While it can be hard and boring, and maybe doesn't make sense now, you must stick with it. Your very life and the future of this country depends on it. Stay in school. If this is a propagandist message, my sister is in lock-step right behind the POTUS.

As an adult watching the clip, I knew that President believed every word that was coming out of his mouth. As a person who benefited from education and a former teacher himself, he was trying to impress on the impoverished and the disenfranchised to stick with it. The message of the speech was "Hang in there." But this post isn't necessarily about the speech as much as it is about what my sister's response was to it. "I want him to be my father!"

Oh, Dad. My sister and I are a couple of those kids. Two of the twenty-five million kids in the United States that grow up without their biological father in the house...or anywhere we could reach without years of family therapy and a psychologist. I usually give my mom a lot of guff in this blog, but lay off my father because my Daddy Issues are much bigger than my Mommy Issues, and would require me to delve into some pretty personal stuff about my father's past, and -- believe it or not -- I believe in his privacy. So let's just say that my father has some pretty big Daddy Issues of his own that caused him to make some really bad decisions, including "leaving the home" which is just a really pretty euphemism for "selfishly running away from your responsibilities." The fallout of this decision -- almost thirty years ago now -- continues to reverberate with my sister and me in a million different ways even to this day. One of which is an active campaign to find a father in our personal spheres and in the media.

Do not misunderstand me. We had male influences in our home. First, my mother moved us back to her father's house where she was promptly put to work feeding and cleaning up after her father and brother (my grandfather and uncle) while they went to work and put food on the table for us. However, even when my mother got a job "outside the home," she still came back to the house each evening to the second shift. And while my grandfather used to harass me about helping my mother (as he sat reading the paper), my mother used to tell me to go play or do my homework (perhaps in the hopes of sparing me early indoctrination into "women's work"). During this time period, a little TV show called the Cosby Show came on the air, and every Thursday night, I figuratively moved to Brooklyn to go live with my preferred dad, Dr. Heathcliff Huxtable. A man who not only came home every night, but joked with his children, kissed his wife, and talked and modeled the importance of personal responsibility. (She says while sighing wistfully and fluttering her eyelashes.)

When my mother re-married and we moved into a new home, the search for a father did not end. My stepfather, a man who came home every night and kissed his wife, was a stand-up guy, but he didn't exactly treat me like his daughter. I don't mean that in a perv'y, weird way, just in that we were strangers thrown into a house together. Blended families don't always blend well. Like a smoothie made with real fruit; there's still going to be chunks of strawberry in there that block the straw causing immense frustration or shoot into the back of your throat to unexpectedly gag you. For years, I would hide in my bedroom or in the rec room with the hopes of being ignored. It worked well. During those years, I often found my father in movies. Steve Martin in Father of the Bride comes to mind. Numerous teen exploitation films where the oblivious dad finally "sees" his daughter, and apologizes for being a Bad Dad. (Project much? Ahem.)

I finally found two -- well, fathers would be wrong, but -- father figures in my twenties. At the police department, I had two sergeants, Spence and John, who took me under their wing in non-perv'y or weird ways. Spence convinced me to enroll in Creative Writing courses at the local community college. John brought me to cool crime scenes, sent me out with his credit card to buy his wife's Valentine's Day gifts, and invited me onto the cruises he organized. (Years later, I went to a police officer's wedding, and John and his wife Debbie were there. I asked Debbie if it would be OK if I asked John to dance. Said Debbie, "Oh, for God's sake, you're practically one of his kids! Why are you even asking?!") If you've ever heard the story of why I became a cop, these two figure prominently in it. They saw that I was directionless and thought I would make an excellent cop. So, I became a cop. This seemed to make everyone happy including my Bio Dad.

(My conversation with my father, which happened accidentally when I picked up the phone at my grandmother's house, went something like this:

"Hey, I just want to tell you, I'm really proud of you, honey."

"Umm, thanks, Dad. Actually, I quit the P.D. and I'm moving to New York to work at Woman's Day magazine."

"Oh."

This is when you know God has a perverse sense of humor.)

This, of course, brings me to the differences between a father and a father figure. The convenience of a father figure is that they are not your real dad. Real dads can be screws up, jackasses, or half-wits. Father figures are the people you seek out because they share a common psychology with you. The breach between a real dad and a father figure is filled with romantic ideals, longing, and -- most importantly -- choice. Should my real dad have stayed in the home, I would probably be a completely differently person psychologically. The same can be said if my grandfather or my stepfather took an active interest in parenting me. But all these men abdicated their authority to my mother. (Hence the drubbing my mother takes in the blogs.) However, because I formed my own ideas and expectations in life, I went out and found men who already embodied those qualities. And while real dads can be embarrassing or exasperating or disappointing, father figures can be abandoned if they no longer fit the fantasy. If tomorrow, Bill Cosby goes all Howard Hughes, I can politely distance myself and seek out a new daddy stand-in. Not so when you share DNA or a house with that guy in his boxers who can belch the alphabet.

As the years have progressed, I've been honest enough with myself to admit that I prefer the father figures I've collected along the way to the dads I've been given. My father figures have taken active interests in what I'm doing, where I'm going, and what I'm going to do next. They have been encouraging, engaging, and positive. While my dads have all told me to do as they say and not as they do, my father figures have said, do as I have done; here is the pathway. Kinda like the President in his speech to the school children of America.

After all this, then, it shouldn't be any wonder that Kate and I listened transfixed to that speech. When you think about it, it was one fatherless man speaking to twenty-five million(+) fatherless children in a language we understood. In language we would like to hear from our real dads. He was encouraging, engaging, and positive. Everything a father should be. And therefore, maybe, I'll begin to lock-step right next to Kate. Just do me a favor, don't ask Malia and Sasha for the real scoop, please. I couldn't bear it if Barrack hangs around the White House in his boxers belching the alphabet.

Writing Writers

2009-09-09T15:21:00.000-07:00

Writing is hard work. I know I make it look easy (what?), but it sooo is not. Writing takes so much more than getting an idea and putting it on paper. Actually, that's the easy part (which, quite frankly, isn't all that easy). The hard part is making it worth reading. Crafting it into something someone else is willing to plunk down money for and eat up valuable time with. Writing is so ugh and umph and grr and sigh and mmm and aha! It's like ripping a tree, roots and all, from your head and planting it on paper. Here! It's tiring and exhilarating. Writing sucks. And its satisfying. It's creation. And it's mind numbing drudgery. Writing is refuge and a whole lot of work.

I'm thinking a lot about writing these days and the writing process because I'm actually doing it again. I finished writing text for a kid's picture book and sent it to a friend/illustrator to see if she can do anything with it. I'm sick and tired of a screenplay I finished and have been tweaking for about four months now. And I've recently picked up a romance novel that I stuck in a drawer about two years ago and actually want to know how it ends. I'm working on it. We'll see. Weirdly, all around me all my writer friends seem to be writing, too. One of my friends has been tinkering with a children's book series idea that she has. Two more friends decided to take the month of August out and write separate 50,000 word novels. Another two friends were waiting to hear from their agent if their YA book was picked up by a publisher while they started on a gimmicky etiquette book. Another friend is in the process of "researching" her self-help travelogue. My brother fired up his blog again. Seems the end of summer is a good time to write.

The thing is, when a writer writes something there is an expectation. In fact, I'm a little nervous about posting this blog mentioning the kid's book, the screenplay, and the novel because inevitably people expect me to do something with my writing. And then I start hedging. "When is that kid's books coming out?" Umm, well, it wasn't a freelance assignment, it's just something I kinda just wrote, for fun, maybe. I don't know. The illustrator has it now and it's, you know, no rush, it was just for fun, kinda. "Is that screenplay finished yet?" Ah, actually, I mean, I'm done with the latest draft which is kinda, like, the first completed draft, but it's not really finished because now I've got to tweak it because, you know, I see the holes in the plotting, and, well, it's not done-done. It's sorta, kinda-done, maybe. "I can't wait to read your romance novel!" Oh, well, you know, it's going to be awhile, probably, because, it's, umm, I mean, I'm working on it. But I'm not finished. I'm about 100 pages in, I think. Maybe less. Or more. I don't know. It might be awhile yet, so...

Luckily for me, most of my friends are writers so they get it. And they know better than to ask. Because sometimes a piece could be finished without being finished. And it can be finished-finished but not ready for consumption. Or sometimes you're just finished with it but it's not finished at all. Writing is this weirdly personal push-pull. It's intimate. And it's public. You sit in a room all by yourself creating an entire universe, people it with characters who spring from the well of your subconscious. It's like being God! It's fun! I mean, it's work, but it's fun work. (Sorta. I'm thinking God would say the same thing. "It's fun, but, man, is it work!") But then, if you are to be a real god -- I mean, writer -- you're going to have to share it with someone. At which point, you get to hear how brilliant or crappy you are from people who supposedly love you and call you friend. Or daughter. Or client. If you're lucky, someone wants to give you money for your creation, and then you get to read how brilliant or crappy you are from people who are perfect strangers and have no emotional stake in you as an individual so who cares if they crush your soul, you shouldn't be writing anyway, you hack! Or maybe not. Quite frankly, it's terrifying.

But. I love it and, therefore, I'll take my lumps. No matter how lumpy I get. So, if you're a writer who is currently writing, I feel ya, buddy. Keep at it. And if you know a writer who is writing, well, just be kind and wait for it to come out in paperback before you ask to read it. It's for the best.

A Fertility God

2009-09-02T11:22:00.000-07:00

2009 should be called "The Year of the Baby." At least this is true for me. Just about every arena of my life has included a new baby. This baby was born April 1st to my best friend from New York who now lives in California, Rebecca. (Please disregard how horrible I look in this photo and pay attention to the cuteness of Sam. Thank you.)

This baby was born to my first L.A. friend, Heather, in May.

My high school friend Gina had her second little girl around the same time. Both girls are named Lucy.

My twin nieces, Cara and Chloe, were born in August. (Cara is having surgery on her pancreas as I write, but the prognosis is good.)

My sister Kate, my cousin Josh's girlfriend, my L.A. friend Amy, and my NYC friend Anna are all due at the end of the year.

And now, my oldest friend on the books is due with her second child in February. Which will not be 2009, but since conception happened pre-2010, I'm going to count it anyway. I think I might be a fertility god...

Kadi Baby

2009-09-01T15:03:00.000-07:00

My little sister -- who beat me down the aisle -- is now pregnant. She's due around November 13th. My mother is thrilled. She is also in uber-grammy mode putting together the baby shower. It has been decided that baby pictures of my sister and her hubby should grace the invitation, so my mother scanned a few old photos. This, of course, released a torrent of nostalgia for Mom which meant she had to promptly share them with me. I have to say, my sister was one cute baby.

The funny thing is, due to the age difference between me and Kadi, I remember my sister vividly like this. And sometimes? Sometimes I wonder at how this adorable, little baby become the beautiful, accomplished woman Kate is today. Love you, Brat.

Pretty Women

2009-08-31T11:08:00.001-07:00

"What do you want to do?" Hugh asked.

"I don't know," I answered.

It was Saturday night and one friend was sick, another was in New York, and the third was helping her mother out of the reach of the fires that were (and are) licking the Hollywood hills, leaving me and the Aussie alone...again. Since this seems to be a regular occurance nowadays, we're becoming a bit boring. What are you doing? Nothing. What are you doing? Nothing. What do you want to do? I don't know. What do you want to do? I don't know. Hey. When did we get married? Umm...

"Have you ever seen a whore in Los Angeles?" Hugh randomly asked.

"No, I don't think I have," I replied after thinking about it for a moment. "However, I did once read that the internet has driven prostitution to sites like Craigslist and off of the streets."

And it's true, making it hard out here for a pimp.

"According to the movies -- and they're never wrong -- prostitutes are on Hollywood Boulevard," I said. So, after dinner we drove over there to find a Pretty Woman.

As we were driving up La Brea to the Hollywood intersection, Hugh pointed out a girl. "Is that a whore?"

She was a bleach blonde wearing a black lycra mini-dress and come-fuck-me boots, with a big black tattoo on her arm, crossing the street by herself. She was kinda hunched over and looked like she was looking for her next score or john or both.

"Definitely," I answered, assured in my middle-class knowledge of a ho's life. But as we turned the corner and started to head south on Hollywood, I became less assured and more horrified in a very generic way. We didn't see prostitutes, but we did saw a whole lotta hos. Or wannabe hos. Or girls who want people to think that they're hos without actually being a ho. Or girls who aren't hos but will probably sleep with you at the end of the night for the price of four Jaeger bombs. Ahem. Seriously, these girls were auditioning to be the next Girl Next Door, except they were probably too cheap to catch Hef's discerning eye. Suddenly, I began to wonder, what came first: Frederick's of Hollywood or the clientele (and if you use that link, some of FoH's dresses are actually longer and more modest than what I saw on Saturday night. I'm not kidding). I was beginning to feel out of place in my lemon yellow linen shift from the GAP and was happy to be in car and not street walking with the rest of these, umm, ladies(?).

It reminded me of a book I read a couple of years ago entitled Female Chauvinist Pig. It highlighted American culture's curve towards pornography and raunichiness. Stripper poles as exercise, Jenna Jameson selling foam replicas of her body parts, Paris Hilton's sex tape as marketing ploy, etc. In the book, the author interviewed a 12-year old girl who said -- and I'm paraphrasing here, but not too much -- that a girl needs to look like a slut, but not act like one. In other words, our power as women continues to reside in being able to excite men. I can dress like a whore, act like a whore, talk to you like a whore, even have sex with you, but you're not allowed to think of me like a whore because that is sexist. Sigh. This is equality? An important part of Ariel Levy's thesis was that women aren't even thinking about sex when they dress this way or try to emmulate Playboy bunnies cum starlets; that female sex is no longer about her physical passion or desire but about using her sexuality as a power play. You may want me, but you can't have me unless I say you can. Desire me, so I can reject you and feel better about myself. As with most buzz-worthy books, this might be a tab hyperbolic and boiling things down to their lowest common denominator. But with that said, I know plenty of women who hold contrary views about their own sexual empowerment; like a woman who will sleep with a guy that she doesn't like because she "has needs" and she's going "get [hers]," but won't sleep with a guy she does like because she doesn't want him to get the "wrong idea" about her. Umm....

Recently, a friend of mine handed me a book entitled A Return to Modesty. I haven't had the chance to read it yet. But I find it interesting that a book can be published under the guise that modesty is radical. But then again, after trolling Hollywood Boulevard with its plethora of young women dressed like they're ready to attend the AVN Awards, maybe it is.

As for Hugh and me, after about thirty minutes of this game, we went home -- separately and without having sex-- without seeing a sex worker (prostitute is sooo 20th century). But all is not lost, at least not for Hugh. He leaves for Thailand this week. They've got a red light district in Bangkok. Makes it easier to find the women who are willing to get paid for it.

Dear Abby

2009-08-24T11:14:00.000-07:00

In the beginning of August, I received an email from a friend and former colleague who currently lives in Seattle working for a book packager. This friend wanted to inform me that there was a job opening for an editor at her place of business and wanted to know if I would be interested in applying for the position.

I'm going to assume that everyone who reads this blog knows me (and if you don't know me, "why, hello there, stranger"). And as a person who knows me, you know that I'm pretty -- Brave? Reckless? Fickle? Pick your adjective of choice here -- when it comes to career change and making out-of-the-blue moves. I can get into why I am the way I am, but why bother? All that matters is that I became self-reliant a long time ago now and, so far, I haven't screwed up too badly. In fact, most of my take-a-flying-leap-of-faith-and-see-where-you-land adventures have worked out pretty well. So, when I was presented with this new opportunity, I thought about it for a day or two and thought, "Hell, why not?", updated my resume, culled together my list of books, and sent it on.

Publishing is notoriously slow. So, I didn't think too much about it when I didn't hear back from the packager for about two weeks. In the meantime, I got myself all riled up about why I wanted to leave L.A. and my job. "I hate her!" "I can't stand this!" "Why aren't there any smart men in this godforsaken city?" Blahblahblah. I got my fione Irish temper up, I did. And if anyone knows how to push my buttons but good, it's me. So, by the time the interview came up, I was ready to knock it out of Dodgers Stadium all the way to Safeco Field. In the meantime, I didn't want to tell anyone about the process because, well, quite frankly, I'd get advice. Or No Advice which is sometimes worse than generic advice as No Advice usually leads to people constantly asking what you're going to do. Whatareyougoingtodo?Whatareyougoingtodo?Whateareyougoingtodo? I DON'T KNOW! AGH! This, I've learned the hard way. And if I did need advice, I would seek out the right Dear Abby for the job.

"Give me your salary requirements," the Editorial Manager said at the end of the interview. "I just want to remind you that we're not going to be able to compete with television." "Yes," I said. "I remember. No one gets rich in publishing. It really is a labor of love." "Also, I'm just going to send you a test. I hate to call it that. It's just to see what your editing skills are. And if you could pitch me a book idea, that would be great, too." "No, problem," I answered, already thinking of a couple of topics. "And if you can get that all to me early next week, that would be helpful. When would you be able to get up here?" "Mid-September, I think."

And so began my specialty: Pre-worry (AKA panic). "*groan* What am I going to do?" "*moan* What do I want out of my life?" And, of course, "*sigh* Do I really want to do this again?" I hadn't even opened the test yet. I feel bad for the first person who called me on Friday evening. Hugh had to spend two hours listening to me dissect myself into the smallest details. If he didn't know I was a freak before that conversation, he's got a pretty good handle on it now. Then there was the conversation on Saturday morning with a girl I'll call Andy who called with a personal crisis of her own and ended up listening to me instead. Andy is very patient and missed making millions of dollars as a psychologist/life coach because, seriously, she could. Unfortunately, Andy is a very authentic person and has these things called morals. (Morality, keeping people poor for a millennia.) After Andy, I called my mother because I promised I would. See: No Advice. And after speaking to her, I realized who my Dear Abby for this To Seattle or Not to Seattle dilemma would be.

As with everyone, I have a cadre of friends who fulfill different needs in my life. For instance, I would never ask my Nuturer to give me a motivational kick in the bottom. Nor would I ask a just-holding-it-together married woman to give me dating tips. See what I'm saying? What I needed for this job was a single gal in publishing with a clear-eyed view of the career/dating/family landscape. Luckily, I had just the gal in my Rolodex. She is (A) reasonable. (B) Empathetic. (C) A Senior Editor back in NYC who I worked with during one of the most turbulent and stressful times of my life right before I hit the bricks for L.A. Let's call her Edie.

I adore Edie. Love her to pieces. She probably has no idea the esteem with which I regard her. She's just lovely. I want all good things for her. Smart, cute husband, brownstone in Brooklyn Heights, 2.5 kids who get into Stuyvesant, lots of money and her own imprint. Or, you know, whatever she wants. Anyway, I called Edie in a mild panic. As always, Edie was rational and empathetic. Truthful and tactful. We talked brass-knuckles publishing. We talked about proximity to family. We talked finances. We talked until she talked me off the ledge and I realized that I really didn't want to make another interstate career move, but to find a *gulp* husband. Crap.

Later, when I finally did open the test and look at it, everything I had surmised solidified into a fact. I sighed heavily, felt tired, and couldn't even scrap up enough vim to write a pitch letter. I was overwhelmed with the enormity of the task. It was like agreeing to go on a date with an old boyfriend. It was nice fine, but there was not spark. OK, so I hate L.A. I can't stand certain people I come into contact with on a daily basis. I'm terrified that all my friends are going to pull up stakes and leave me here alone. But as it's been put to me by other Dear Abbys, making decisions based on negative quantities does not necessarily make a positive change. Running back into the arms of publishing in a bright shiny, new city doesn't necessarily mean that I'm going to be happy or even happier.

This morning, I called up the interviewer and told her that I reconsidered the move and I was going to remove myself from consideration. I thanked her for her time then got off the phone and emailed the friend who informed me of the opportunity to let her know that I'm out of the running due to personal reasons.

The moral of the story is that I'm trying something new by staying in L.A. And that if I really want to make a change, it should be in regards to my personal life and not my public one. Since I've never taken a-flying-leap-of-faith-and-see-where-you-land attitude towards my love life, panic -- I mean, pre-worry -- is imminent. So, keep your phone lines open, people. You never know which Dear Abby I'll be coming to next.

Connecticut in December

2009-08-18T15:54:00.000-07:00

I just booked my flight back to Connecticut for Christmas. I got a very good deal, so I should feel pretty self satisfied and efficient. And yet...I don't.

First, let's start with the practical. I booked through Priceline and they are flying me out of LAX -- blerg -- on Alaska Airlines ("operated by American Airlines") and flying me back on Delta. And while I got to choose my seats, I'm vaguely worried that not only am I not going to get the seat I chose, but that somehow I'm going to get bumped. Since I had to book it for December 23rd -- I have not forgotten my boss's wrath over my taking time off pre-Christmas 2008 -- and book on the larger carriers -- and not my preferred JetBlue or VirginAmerica -- I'm almost certain that this is going to be the case and I'm going to find myself alone, eating cold soup on Christmas morning (don't ask me why it's cold, it just seems more miserable and ergo more fitting).

Second, while I'm pretty certain I'm still going to be living in L.A. come December, what if something occurs and I do not? It's going to cost me more money to rearrange these flights then if I just waited a little longer.

Third, and the "biggie" of the three, I'm a little sigh'y -- is sigh'y a word? -- over the fact that I have to use what little money I have to make the yearly trek back to Connecticut and not to (A) London, (B) Rome, (C) Thailand, (D) Seattle, (E) Denver, (F) Sydney, (G) Africa, (H) Paris. All places that I have been invited to by my myriad of friends in the last five months. (And no, I'm not kidding. My friends are really this fabulous.) New invitations are being offered on a bi-monthly basis. And every time one comes up, I sigh heavily; keeping my fingers crossed that maybe I'll win the lottery. You know, the one I don't play?

I know that once Christmas comes I'm going to be very happy and excited to go to Connecticut in December (new nieces!), but for right now, all I can think about is where I'm not going. London in November. Sydney in January. Rome in February. Paris in March...

I Am Right

2009-08-16T13:21:00.000-07:00

In my bedroom, above my computer, I have an eraser board. On this board, I make notations of things. Lists of things I might need to buy next time I'm at CVS or pack for my next trip. I'll write down phone numbers or addresses. Sometimes, I'll wake up and write down a dream. I also use it for Google research. Meaning, I'll think of a blog topic or fictional scene that might need some "reality", so I'll take down all my notations on the eraser board. Right now, the eraser board says, "Evolutionary Cognitive Neuroscience", "Facial phenotypic similarity", "fMRI", "Anthony Volk @ Brock U.", "Female Infidelity & Paternal Uncertainty", "Daly & Wilson", "Steven Platek", and "Alexandra Alvergne @ U. of Montpelier, France." Because sometimes I use the board to prove that I AM RIGHT!

Being right takes scores of time. It requires me to backtrack to just about everything I've read in a blog, book, review, article or on AOL's homepage, or seen on the History Channel or TLC, trying to piece together where I picked up a tidbit of random trivia that I found interesting enough to drop into a casual conversation only to have someone say, "That's not true. That doesn't make any sense." As if I'm making up crap on the spot to mislead a person into a state of stupidity. This, of course, drives me crazy. Why? I don't know. Maybe because I'm insecure about my education. Maybe its because Miss Teevan told me -- in front of my entire Italian I class -- that I wasn't smart enough to be a lawyer or because Sr. Bernard Joseph used to mock me -- for four school years -- whenever I made a spelling mistake or because Mr. Guarino accused me -- in front of my entire 6th grade class -- of being a cheater when I got a math test right because I had gotten so many wrong. (Teachers, ladies and gentlemen, can really fuck with a kid's sense of self.) So, for years now, I've done my best to prove to the greater world that I'm not stupid. That I'm actually smart. And I would pound you into the ground with my big brain if it took two hours on Google to retrace my every step and footnote my every argument.

Quite frankly, all this has been exhausting. And because it's exhausting, I'm trying to let it go. Afterall, Miss Teevan and Sr. Bernard Joseph are both dead, and Mr. Guarino left teaching. I have mean and evil things to say about all these people, but part of letting it go is (*grumble, grumble*) forgiveness. That last part will be harder than the Google research, I'll just admit that right now. But not as hard as giving up the habit of being right. That's a killer. This morning, as I started to compose an email argument -- with supporting links! -- to a person who refuted my factoid during our casual conversation last night, I realized that I just had to stop. First, because the email was starting to read like something from a post-grad cognitive science research paper and secondly, I wasn't going to get any vindication or even validation. All I was going to get was one of the three responses I typically get: 1) The person will say, "that still doesn't make sense." Which will make me nuts. (2) The person will say, "yeah, I got that email but it was too long to read. What did it say?" Which will make me nuts. (3) The person will say, "I don't even remember talking about that." Which will make me nuts. (Are you seeing a pattern here?) What I have never gotten is a simple, "Huh. That's interesting. I'm sorry I doubted you. You were right." And I realized mid-email that I wasn't going to get that this time around either. In fact, I'm pretty sure I would have gotten response #3. So, I deleted the email.

When I'm done with the eraser board information -- the items have been picked up at CVS, the address has been copied into my address book, the dream no longer feels relevant -- I erase the writing and wait for the next info emergency to arise. So, in this tradition, I'm going to erase the Google research on facial phenotype. Because even though no one else might know that I've proven myself, I've proven myself to me. I know that I'm right. And that's got to suffice. So, suck it, Sister B.J.! (Sigh. I'm still working on that forgiveness thing...)

When Opportunity Knocks

2009-08-06T14:59:00.000-07:00

I was offered an opportunity. I'm not going to get into the specifics because I don't need advice right now, and I'm sure to get it if I mention exactly what the opportunity is. But let's just say that the opportunity would require a move to another state and not one I've lived in before (calm down, east coast). The offer came via email which might be the wrong way to communicate information to me because I tend to start skimming while my head gets all buzzy, and I feel like jumping out of my seat and calling my mommy. "What do I do? Whaddoido! (*moan.*)" I actually closed out of AOL and sat in denial for a few minutes, before I was able to pull out my mental police officer (I'm telling you, everyone should go through the police academy just for this skill set) and slap myself around a bit. "Calm down; slow down. Stop panicking and think."

This post is not about this particular opportunity, but the way I respond to any kind of opportunity that presents itself. I like to call it “pre-worry,” but a mental health specialist might call it “panic.” Let’s take dating, for instance. A guy asks me out. “Would you like to go out on Friday night?” My stomach sinks, and I look at him as if he just asked, “Would you like me to rip your heart from your chest?” While I would love to say, “Can I get back to you on that?”, I usually have to give an answer right away, and it always comes out sounding a bit like I’m trying to convince myself that I want to do this (which is a partial truth), and that I’m just not that into him. “Yeah, sure! That’d be great! Oh wait. This Friday? Umm, I might have to…no, it’s fine…yes!” In those spare, jibber-jabbering moments, I have to make the “right decision” because it might affect the rest of my life! (It’s all do-or-die in Callafornia.) I process as fast as I can. Risk management style. “What’s the worst that can happen?” “Do I have anything to wear?” “How fast can I lose ten pounds?” “Is he going to expect to go dutch; am I liquid?” “Do I like him? His mouth is a bit too small. Can I give birth to a child with a mouth like that?” (Don’t judge me…) The root of the problem is this: I don't like risk, and I definitely don’t like change. How is a Friday night date risky change? Oh, it is, my friend. It is.

So, if that’s how I confront a little date proposal, imagine what I would do if someone actually dropped to a knee and proposed marriage (I have, and it involves puke). Those big, life-altering opportunities can cause days of consternation for me. “What does it mean? What do I do? Is this a test?” Once I get over the existential angst, I move onto the practical. “How does this affect my career? How much money is this going to cost versus how much money it’s going to generate?” And then onto the personal, “How is this going to affect the people in my life like my roommate? How are my friends going to react? How will I meet new people where I land?” All these things have to be gone through with a fine-tooth comb. I have to parse out each and every scenario and come to all conclusions before I even take a breath. And once I’ve gotten to the place where I think, “OK, yeah, I can do this.” Everything firms up like its cement, and I just go like Usain Bolt out of the running blocks.

When I do change, I usually take my present, rip it shreds, set it on fire, and hot foot it out of town. I've noticed this about myself and fully acknowledge it. However, this response has not made me happy. See: Los Angeles. So, this time, I’m trying to use that mental cop a whole lot sooner and further into the process. This time I started to think about how I could leverage this opportunity to perhaps better my position in Los Angeles. How to use it to stay than using it as an excuse to go. That was a bit risky as it would require me to tip my hand to my employer during a tricky economy. I also started to think about what I really wanted out of my life because those wants have been changing. I’m a little tired of the gypsy lifestyle I’ve been leading and have actually been thinking about Boston. Home, but not home. And while I like the option of picking up and going, I would actually like to bring a friend or two along this time. Or go to a place where I already have friends set up. I’m also a little tired of hop scotching to different jobs to find a “safe spot” where I “can grow.” I kind of just want a job that I like, that pays me well, and allows me to have a personal life. I’d rather start growing in a relationship than at the work space. I’d rather feel safe at home than at work. Unfortunately, that opportunity hasn't presented itself yet, but here's to hoping that this opportunity -- whether I take it or leave it -- does.

So, what am I going to do about this particular opportunity that has not only knocked but rang the doorbell a couple of times and yelled that it knows I'm inside? Well, even though my modus operendi of pre-worry has already kicked into gear, I’m trying to approach it differently. This time, I’m going to open up the door. Maybe take a step or two out. Greet it and get a good look at it before deciding whether to take its arm and go for a jaunt...or slam the door in its face. This, hopefully, will be better way of dealing with it than cowering behind the door until I can figure out whether it’s wielding a machete.

Techno-friend

2009-07-14T16:46:00.000-07:00

I'm just going to admit now that I've become a lazy friend. I totally blame technology. I no longer have to talk to anybody. I don't have to visit, have lunch, or even call. And yet, I'm probably better connected now and to more people than I ever was through my twenties.

Waaay back in the good old 90s, when I was young and carefree, I had about twenty friends. Ten, perhaps, that I would get together with pretty consistently. And five that I would talk to on a regular basis. Friendships required that little thing called time. If you called someone, it was either to make a plan to spend some face time together, or it was a twenty minute phone conversation in which you probably had some awkward pauses. If you were a lazy friend, you called when you knew the person wouldn't be home just so that you could say, "hey, sorry I missed you. Just calling to say hi. You don't need to call me back." Not that I ever did that...

Now? Well, now, we've got social networking sites. I joined MySpace back when everyone was joining MySpace and mainly used it for it's blog capabilities. Nothing much ever came out of the encounter (except, oddly, a date with a gamer), so after awhile, I got tired of it. And so did everyone else. Which is when the mass exodus to Facebook occurred. At first, I refused to make the move. Sure, my MySpace neighborhood was beginning to look like a Connecticut beach community in the dead of winter, but I had no desire to go to the Next Thing only to follow the tweens to the next Next Thing. No desire at all. But then my friends convinced me to start a blog here. And then my other friends (one of the five from those early-20s) convinced me to move to Facebook over Christmas. She said, "move to Facebook! Come on. Everyone's doing it. And the first hit is free!" No, actually, she didn't. She actually said, "you know who surfaced on Facebook? Jane Smith*! Oh my god. You've GOT to see her." And of course, you've got to be "friends" in order to see Jane Smith* so I joined.

The first thing that happened is that all my friends from my twenties found me. And right on their tails came everyone from high school. And then, people from grammar school! In fact, it was starting to get a little scary. (Especially when all those friends started to scan pictures from the mid-80s and started to tag me in them. Christ!) And the more "friends" I re-made, the more my curiosity grew. I started to go to people's pages and read their "walls" and their personal "info." And I especially enjoyed perusing their pictures. Those tagged photos on other people's pages are fabulous! It was like getting a real glimpse into their lives. Here, a photo wasn't cropped to the best angle, and a staged smile became a laugh, double chin and all. It was like being a Peeping Tom -- but with permission! And when I wasn't stalking these people, I was cyber "chit chatting" with them. These are people I haven't spoken to since 1991 -- and barely spoke to them then -- and now we're posting comments on who we want to win So You Think You Can Dance. (Go, Evan!)

The thing I've noticed the most about cyber-friendship is: If I'm a good friend with you anyway, technology is just making it easier to be "together" more often. My best friend from high school and I are currently playing a Scrabble game through the internet. My best friend from New York and I text each other every Wednesday night while watching that above mentioned dance show with our passionate opinions. (Go, Evan!) And while I'm not in Connecticut, I know when my brother is feeling a little depressed by the comments he posts on his wall and that maybe it's time for a phone call.

Psychologists continue to debate the merits of technology on personal connectedness and relationships. But for me? There's no debate about it. I might be a good friend, but I'm a fantastic techno-friend. And if that's true for everyone then I think we'll all be OK.

*name changed to protect the guilty.